The Rape of Nick Jonas
by Fabrosi
Summary: When an underground terrorist group clashes with an underground vigilante group over the fate of the popular music industry, each side gets far more than it bargained for...
1. Chapter 1

The Rape of Nick Jonas

A Jonas Brothers fan fiction

Chapter 1

"Omg! Nick Jonas is sooo cute!"

A boy standing nearby turned to her, a sense of disbelief dragging his stomach downward in spite of the fact that he had heard these exact words many a time before, albeit from different mouths. She had seemed like an intelligent girl up to this point- though he didn't know her personally, he had observed that she dressed non-ridiculously, did nothing particularly stupid with her hair, and had a very endearing habit of going on and on about nothing only on the rarest of occasions. Unfortunately for him and all others who could hear her prattling, it seemed as though this was going to be one such occasion. All of his training had prepared him- not for this moment, so much, but for the mindset which gripped him at this moment, and told him that he must not put up with such filth.

"He's, like, the hottest out of all of them. I think I'm in love!"

Disgusted, he resolved to take a proactive stance on this nauseating development by preventing it from developing any further. He steadily walked towards her, catching her attention through the sheer cold anger projected upon the back of her head by his icy gaze. She turned to face him just as he stopped a foot away from her, looking down upon her with utter disdain.

"Do you know what I'm going to do to Nick Jonas?" He asked her in a level tone. She stared at him, utterly bewildered by his disposition.

"I'm going to rape him." He saw a faint flicker of shock flit across her young eyes.

"I'm going to put together a master plan," He continued, "and kidnap him, tie him up and blindfold him so that he starts to sweat out of the pure stinking fear, and then I'm going to torture him and rape him." By now, the girl was obviously disgusted by his descriptions, but could only shake her head in disgust as he continued to play out the sordid scene in his imagination while verbally force-feeding it into hers.

"First, I'm going to do him doggy style- I'll force him down on all fours and ram my hard cock into his naked ass, using no lube except possibly his blood, which will no doubt spurt out as a result of the anal carnage I inflict on him." He paused, to let the mental image sink it in.

"After I get bored of his agonized screams, I will gouge out his fucking cock with a rusty corkscrew. Then, I will carve out the inside of his pelvic girdle until there is a hole deep enough for me to ram my dick into." He heard a faint whimper escape her throat through no fault of her own. His confidence building, he went on:

"By this time, he will be in unimaginable pain and will beg me to stop. He will pray to his God, beg for forgiveness, blurt out every sin he has ever committed in barely-comprehensible screams- and all without me even asking, because he is a fucking coward, and that's why he's a Christian. I will show him no mercy- except possibly feigned mercy to get his hopes up so that I can destroy them. The last thing he ever sees will be me cumming into his fucking eyes, after which I will gouge out both his eyeballs and shove them up his ass."

He actually saw a teardrop forming in the corner of each of her eyes. _Funny,_ he thought, _that my words alone could bring her such pain._

"I will leave him to rot for a while, knowing that he will never, ever see again, and also that he will soon be dead. Once I am ready to go again, I will rape him once more- first in his ass, then in his bleeding eye sockets. When I am done for the day, I will take a sledgehammer to his sternum and collapse his chest cavity so that it crushes his heart and brings him the quick death he has been praying for up until this point."

With that, he paused again. He saw her shoulders drop slightly, as she relaxed in a defeated, disillusioned sort of way. No doubt, she thought he had finished, but, for good measure, he added:

"I will then proceed to rape his fucking corpse, and ask him where his God is now, and you won't be able to do **anything **about **any** of it because you are just a fucking fifteen year old girl."

With that, he turned and walked away, not particularly caring about the continuation of her reaction. This was an average day in the life of a committed pop whore hunter. It hardly mattered, of course, that he had just revealed his plans to a fucking fifteen year old girl. He and his associates were too close to the culmination point to be stopped by anyone. To put it simply, they were very, very well prepared for what they were about to do.

"…and then, he started going on and on about all these gross things he wanted to do to Nick Jonas!"

The two eldest councilors looked at one another, then at her. At 16 years of age, they were two of the oldest Jonas fans on the planet. While they felt sympathy for their sister as she put her head in her arms on the table to signal her hopelessness, they had far more pressing matters to concern themselves with at the moment. The pair began whispering to one another, unnoticed by the rest of the congregation, whose gaze still lay on the victim.

"…Could it really be them?"

"It could be anyone. As you well know, we have many enemies."

"It sounds as though his description was oddly specific, as though it were premeditated…"

"-It was a moment's fabrication, nothing more. We have greater, better-established threats against which we should prepare ourselves."

"Yes, and the pop whore hunters are our most dangerous enemies. If there is one in our school…"

"-Nonsense. There couldn't be one in our school. That's the point of all the covert background checks we run on new students."

The argument went on for some time. It was later discovered that the girl with her head on the table had fallen asleep in that position.

He woke up, feeling better-rested than he had in quite a long time. He had experienced some trouble sleeping as of late, and was glad to know that his troubles were over. As he shifted his weight slightly to get out of bed, his senses began to feed him some very odd information. Above him, he could see the sky and some buildings- but they were sideways. Not only was he not under the same ceiling he had fallen asleep under, but there was no ceiling at all- just the sky, and these sideways buildings. Why were they sideways? What kept them from falling down?

His stomach and sense of proprioception immediately answered both questions- the buildings were not sideways; he himself was upright. How had he slept upright? Why did he still feel as though he was wrapped up in his bed sheets?

He twisted his head around, searching for the answer to these follow-up questions, which he promptly found- he was standing in a sack- no, _trapped_ in a sack- which was hanging from a flagpole sticking out of the top of a hundred-foot tall building.

His immediate reaction was to freeze with panic and realize exactly what might go wrong, given his delicate situation. He could not help but fret incessantly over the matter of the rope that attached the sack to the flagpole- it looked frayed; it looked like it was doing badly in this hot sunlight; it looked like it wouldn't hold up, and he would soon fall to the ground which seemed so unimaginably far below him. He was gripped with acrophobia and cold sweat, knowing full well that he was completely helpless. Who had done this to him, and why? His mind racing furiously, he tried to figure out who his enemies were… but he couldn't. Did everyone he know like him? Perhaps there was someone he trusted who had betrayed him… yes, that was it. Perhaps it had been… one of his friends. His friends? Which friend? Whom was he friends with? He paused his thought process for a moment while he tried to sort out this last question. He kept pressing himself for an answer… but none came. He was friendless- what else could it mean, that he couldn't think of anyone he considered a friend? Maybe no one liked him. He was stricken by a sudden sense of loneliness. To think, no one at all would miss… what's his name… he paused again. What _was_ his name? He didn't know his own name. At first this heightened his panic, but then he realized that he must just be suffering from amnesia. Yes, that was it. Perhaps he was some important political figure, and whoever had put him up here would take pity on him, since he couldn't even remember what he had done to offend anyone. Just as he was thinking this, he felt some movement behind him, after which the sack he was in was tugged through a window into the building and into a blur of motion, talking, and confusion.

"Did anyone see him?!"

"Of course they did! He was in plain sight!"

"Well, he might not have been visible from the ground at that height…"

"The important thing is, we've bought ourselves some time. Our visitor friends didn't seem to suspect anything, and hopefully they won't be knocking again anytime soon."

He was surrounded by several people, dragging him far from the window he had just been pulled through- from any windows, for that matter. After they had laid him down and taken a collective step back from him, he saw that there were six of them. Something struck him as odd. They were high school students. He had been kidnapped and dangled from a flagpole hundreds of feet in the air by high school students. They were dressed casually, mainly in t-shirts and jeans. As he looked around the room, he saw that it was a hotel room. What the hell was going on here?

"Excuse me, everyone…" he began, and noticed his captors glaring at him. "…umm, this is kind of awkward, but I seem to be suffering from amnesia. I really can't remember anything before being hung from that flagpole just now."

His words were met with a silence that he found deeply chilling. Finally, one of his captors turned to another, and said, "He may be telling the truth. We drugged him pretty heavily, and we've been over the possibility that he might suffer temporary amnesia as a side effect."

He breathed a sigh of relief. Temporary! Well, that was one of his problems solved. Now, if he could just get out of this situation.

"We can't have this guy not know who is!" blurted out a blonde high schooler. "That would ruin the entire point!"

"Alright… just… make sure he stays well-restrained. We can discuss our options in the safe room." With that, some of his captors rolled him over with their feet, slid off the bag that covered him, and bound his arms and legs with rope. With his face on the floor, he couldn't see where anyone was going, but he heard footsteps moving away from him, followed by the sound of a door closing.

They moved swiftly and purposefully along the sidewalk, their sunglasses concealing their eyes from view. A group of six girls in their early teens, they drew little notice from law enforcement and other undesirables- just as intended. Really, was there any reason to suspect that each one of them was carrying multiple concealed weapons?

"We are now approaching the incident site," said the leader quietly to her fellows. "With any luck, we can simply split up and find the evidence we need- it is highly unlikely that the incident occurred without a struggle."

The "incident site" turned out to be a sort of blind spot- which is to say that passersby were blind to it. It was an alleyway that led to a door which happened to be the back entrance to a backstage area- which in turn was behind the stage where the Jonas brothers were scheduled to perform in approximately 46 minutes.

As they entered the alleyway, the girls split up in a very organized manner, extracting from their purses magnifying glasses, UV lights, and other equipment typically used for such investigations. "I've got something!" one girl announced quietly but sharply to the others. They quickly converged around her as she withdrew from the alley a single hair.

"Color match," spoke another girl tersely, as she drew from her purse a small notebook. The girl holding the hair stood up and handed it to the girl holding the notebook, who expertly flipped to the fifty-second page and laid the hair next to a photo showing an extreme close-up of Nick Jonas's hair.

"…We have a match," she announced after a few moments' tension. She closed the book, took out a plastic sleeve, carefully slid the hair into the sleeve, sealed the latter, and returned it to her purse. Without a word, the group left the alleyway the way they had come. The truth was, they had already suspected Nick's whereabouts. This little detour had simply had the purpose of confirming whom they were dealing with.

"…See?? I told you! Right here, you can see a _peer reviewed_ citation _specifically stating_ that the drug causes amnesia in doses that exceed two milligrams."

This argument had continued for almost ten minutes now. Doug stifled a yawn as he turned his gaze away from his more argumentative companions and towards the window to his left. No one on the sidewalk below had to worry about the finer points of assassinating one of the pop industry's most notorious man-whores… those girls walking into the hotel were probably fans, what with their stupid little outfits, and…

-He paused mentally. _Those girls walking into the hotel. _He recognized them just as the last one went through.

"They're here!" he hissed to the others. They all whipped around to face him, their attentions completely focused on him and what he had just told him. "Those crazy bitches from the underground Jonas fan club! I just saw them walk into the hotel!"

These words were met with a frenzy of activity. "Someone get back to the top floor and guard Nick Jonas! Everyone else, fan out and block all entrances to this floor immediately!" These orders were more or less in the process of being carried out before the leader of the cabal had finished speaking them. Before long, all but one of them had spread out on the third floor of the hotel, while that remaining one dashed madly up the stairs towards the top floor.

It was Krystal who saw them first. As she knelt partway up a stairway, cautiously examining the stairs around the corner, she saw a dark-haired teenage male silently opening a door at the top of the stairs, closing it behind him, and looking around slowly- with caution _almost _matching her own- before beginning to draw a weapon from the back of his shoe. Krystal drew her own weapon silently and then simultaneously stepped out from behind the corner and fired off three bullets at the boy from her silencer-equipped pistol, killing him instantly with shots to his head, neck, and chest. He slumped against the door behind him, then slid sideways off of it and began to roll down the stairs. Concealing her weapon once more, Krystal nimbly dodged his falling corpse as she bounded up the stairs.

As she opened the door, she found the hallways around her, on the third floor, ominously empty. Well, maybe it shouldn't have been _that_ ominous, since the hallways of hotels are not generally very crowded, but she was suspicious of everything since seeing that boy draw a pistol at the top of the stairs. Could something have happened to the other guests and staff? All of a sudden, she heard a gunshot, and immediately crouched low against a wall, near the corner she thought the sound had come from. Had someone in her unit forgotten to equip a silencer? Was the shot fired by one of her enemies? If the latter was the case, why weren't her enemies using silencers? Was this some kind of trap? These thoughts raced madly through her mind for only a few seconds, after which she withdrew the mirror once more and slowly held it out in front of her, looking around the corner…

His chin was beginning to hurt. He wasn't quite face-down anymore, of course, but was resting the side of his head on the carpet underneath him, still waiting for someone to come looking for him. Maybe no one would. Maybe he had been kidnapped like that because he was unpopular- infamous for something offensive he had said on the internet.

The internet. Full of lots and lots of websites. He could remember words, and their meanings, so… maybe he could remember who he was. The prospect excited him. _The internet, _he thought to himself. _Am I famous on there? Am I famous on youtube? Was I in that video about… the angry Christian kid?_

Christian. He was Christian. He believed in God. _God is like a person!_ he thought, his anticipation mounting. _If I can remember him, maybe I can remember other people!_ He impatiently racked his brain for more names- _God, Jesus, black Jesus, Obama, Osama, Osama Bin Laden…_

A door opened somewhere nearby, halting his thought process. He didn't see the kidnapper approaching him, but he heard the steady footsteps as the teenager approached him.

"Why did you kidnap me?" he asked suddenly. "I still don't even know who I am! Am I a terrorist? Am I Osama Bin Laden or something?!"

His pleas were met with a soft, cold laugh. "No… no, you're not Osama Bin Laden," said the uncannily calm voice behind him. "If you were, I personally think you would deserve a clean, painless death. No, you're much, much worse than he is…" The captive cringed as his captor tied a blindfold over his eyes. "My friends think you need to regret what you've done," cooed the latter softly, "before you receive the final punishment for it." He felt his clothes begin to come off, somewhat roughly, as a knife cut through them- oddly, not nicking him at all. "-Let's get you up- that's it, both hands like that- now your legs…" He felt a deep sense of foreboding as he felt his pants sliding down. Being blindfolded and restrained didn't help at all.

"M-maybe you should wait," he stuttered. "Your friends might get mad at you if they find out that you, umm, broke the rules. This is important stuff, right?"

Another laugh. "Important, yes… but, better that it happen now, in a way that's not quite as we planned, than never." Cold sweat began to form all over his body. He had a nagging sensation that somewhere in his memories, locked off from recall, was the fate that was about to befall him- what was it called? He was naked, yes… and he didn't have a choice about what was happening… where _was_ this going? _Where _was this going?

In a flash, it came to him. He was distracted for the moment, remembering yet another word, and, bizarrely, felt the need to mentally congratulate himself, despite his dire circumstances. If he ever got out of this… to think of what he'd be able to remember! So many words, all the things he had done, the concerts he had done-

-Wait. _That_ was it. _That _was who he was. It all started coming back to him in a rush- a rush that, sadly, was interrupted by a different rush- this one of pain, as something big and hard was forced against his anus as greedy fingers tugged at its edges, forcing it wide open. He felt a sick, somewhat wet, somewhat frictional sensation as the hard thing actually _slid into_ his anus. He winced in pain and shut his eyes tight. As cold shivers spread out from the area of penetration and his gut trembled in protest, he let out a scream that no one but his attacker could hear.

The rape of Nick Jonas had begun.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"For too long, they have infiltrated our homes. For too long, they have retarded the mental development of our sisters, our friends, our girlfriends. For too long, they have been usurpers on the throne of popular music, an oligarchy of puppet kings ruled over by the corporate icon, the cartoonish fetish, the all-consuming behemoth we call Mickey Mouse. Well, technically they're ruled over by Disney, but like… uhh, do we have enough tape to start over?"

The girls watched the tape for the hundredth time, blinking as little as possible so as to catch every detail they could. The original tape had been emailed very recently to a Jonas Brothers fansite, and from there had spread all over the internet. In it one could see, lit by artificial lighting, a dark figure (but not his face, which was offscreen) speaking emphatically and swaying slightly as he stood in front of the camera.

"You cannot hope to stop us. We are an extremely tight-knit and super secret organization modeled after the now-disbanded illuminati. Much as the illuminati did, we believe that no matter how dark an age we live in, the truth is destined to find its way into the minds and hearts of the masses- and the truth, in this case, is that the Jonas Brothers suck. Seriously, they don't even play their own instruments, and _everybody knows it. _There's this whole other band that plays for them… seriously, look it up."

"I think we should fast forward," mumbled one girl lethargically.

"No!" snapped another. "It's entirely possible that we missed something!"

"…and we're going to kill all four brothers, one at a time, using each of the four elements."

"Stupid boys," mumbled a girl who was half slouching against a sofa and half lying down on the floor. "There's only three Jonas Brothers. They didn't even look stuff up for what they were doing."

"…and the second shall die by water. We won't give away all the details just now, but we _will_ state this disclaimer: _it won't actually be water._"

"Just like I said," she went on, "they didn't do their homework, stupid bo-"

"Shh!" hissed another girl.

"…doubt Jesus will want him after we're done with him. Y'know, that's another thing we have in common with the illuminati- both organizations are all about fighting Christian douchebags. All be told, we're pretty much heroes. Anyways, the fourth brother will be consumed by flames… not that they'll be necessary."

"-What flames? Why won't they be necessary? Who is this 'fourth brother' they think they're talking about?"

"…no more of their godawful music blaring all over the place, except for about a month as tributes to their gruesome, undignified deaths. Oh, and we're also gonna blow up Disneyland, just for the lulz."

The tape was nearing its end, and the girls had extracted no further clues from it. The important thing was to find the locations where the brothers were going to be killed, but since they suspected each brother would be killed by a different team of boys, the fact that they'd found the first location wasn't much help.

Of course, _they_ weren't the team sent to the location- why would they be wasting time watching this tape over and over again if there was a shortage of manpower- er, girlpower? No, the real action was being handled by _qualified_ girls- girls who took gymnastics; girls who had learned how to handle firearms- some from each other, and some from gun-crazed fathers and uncles; girls who, hopefully, would call in soon to report success…

…As she expertly rotated her handheld mirror to show what lay around the corner, Krystal, despite having been hardened by years of combat training, felt a jolt as she saw the corpse of her BFF, Jill. Jill's body was splayed out on the ground, a trickle of blood streaming from the side of her head as the blonde boy standing over her started to look around with his back to the wall, keeping his gun pointed wherever he looked as he did so. Obviously, he was waiting for someone to come running the sound of the gunshot, as Krystal had. Fury building inside of her as she raised her gun, she efficiently sidestepped out from behind the corner and fired four shots at the blond boy. Each found its mark. As he fell, Krystal rushed to the side of her fallen friend, still in shock, and crouched low next to her. Bracing herself against the rush of grief that was threatening to overwhelm her, she forced her eyes shut, breathing deeply and as steadily as she could. Suddenly, she felt what she instinctively recognized as the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her neck.

"Darn it, Kevin! I thought you said were gonna go get Nick!"

"Yeah, I was! I went to look for him like half an hour ago, but I couldn't find him anywhere!"

Joe Jonas sighed, stopped pacing, and leaned against a nearby doorframe. Normally, there was tension in the air around this time- they were about to go onstage, the show was about to start, time to get ready was running out and time to get out there was coming up… _I should write a song about that,_ thought Joe in spite of the situation.

The situation, unfortunately, was no longer one that filled the two remaining brothers with anticipation- they'd given up hope that Nick would show up any time soon.

"Y'know, it's super weird," said Kevin, staring straight ahead at the wall in front of him. "I haven't seen Nick once since he stayed behind on the way here to sign autographs for those guys."

"Heh," laughed Joe. "Since when do _guys_ want our autographs? I always thought we appealed more to the _ladies._"

"Well, maybe that's it," said Kevin, grinning at his brother. "Those guys must've seen us as good role models, since girls are so crazy for us… and, like, they wanted girls to go crazy for them, too."

"Heh… yeah, that must be it," replied Joe. He felt a sudden sense of calm. After all, who really cared if they were on in ten minutes and missing Nick? They were the _Jonas Brothers_. People would still love them if they had a band member missing. Heck, the fans didn't seem to mind that they had a whole other band to play for them during concerts. Nope, there was no reason to worry about Nick at all. He'd turn up sometime after the concert and explain what had gone wrong, and they'd forgive him right away, since there'd be plenty more concerts later on that he could use to make up for missing this one…

"Hello? Anyone there?"

Officer Reynolds cautiously circled the hotel lobby with the rest of his squad, wondering where the staff was. Multiple people in nearby buildings had called in to report hearing gunfire, and all of them insisted the sound had come from the hotel… so there had to be _someone _there… right?

The policemen quickly fanned out in search of the sound's source. Unfortunately, none of them thought to guard the entrance to the hotel, and, as it turned out, there _was_ someone there; a young couple- a blonde girl of about fifteen and a dark-haired boy of about sixteen- walked out into the lobby from another part of the hotel without encountering any police officers along the way. The girl sported a wide, cheesy grin that looked almost forced- possibly because her boyfriend, whose hands were in the pockets of his jacket, was putting on a minor but nonetheless unnecessarily public display of affection by following literally about an inch behind her as the two of them exited the hotel.

Jackie was running madly through the hallways of the third floor, searching for the source of the gunshot she had heard. There was no time to waste- as she darted around one corner after another, she held her gun level at a height that she decided would be most likely to line up with the head of an adolescent human male at the distance she expected to spot him from, given the length of the hallways and-

-and then she saw them: a pair of dead bodies, right next to each other, male and female. The female was Jill, she realized right away, and the male- well, it didn't matter who he was; to her, he was simply one of _them._

In any event, there was no time to start tallying losses just yet. The gunshot had no doubt met the ears of other combatants, and Jackie intended to be ready for them. She crouched low against what seemed to be the least exposed wall in the area, in a hallway leading to a stairwell. As several combatants from both sides converged upon the two corpses, Jackie prepared to fire a bullet into the first boy she saw. As her eyes, hands, and gun synchronized to acquire the target, she felt a sudden jolt. The force of the bullet entering the back of her head thrust her forward, onto the floor…

Doug unclenched his teeth as he pulled out of Nick Jonas. Dizzy and tired as he was from this final orgasm, he collapsed backwards onto the ground, rolling over onto his side as he did so. After fighting against sleep for a minute or two, he turned to look at Nick. The pop star was dead- beyond dead, even; he was mutilated beyond the point where one could accurately describe him as a dead human body. As satisfaction, relief, and triumph welled up inside Doug's heaving chest, a single nagging question in his mind held these feelings in check: _"Does this make me gay?" _It was quite a puzzling question. After some thought, however, Doug decided that if he was gay, then he must also be a necrophiliac, and he knew for sure that he wasn't- hence, he must not be gay. Satisfied by this logic, he slowly lifted himself up off the ground, and prepared for the next step...

The intersection of hallways near the stairwell on the third floor was now a bloody mess. Less than a minute after the first encounter had taken place, seven people lay dead in that same intersection. Four of the bodies were female, and three male. The only one left standing was Cassandra, who panted heavily, her weapon at her side and her psyche totally numbed by the bloodshed around her. She was in so much shock that she did not even bat an eye when she heard a voice from another hallway shout, "Police! Is anyone there??" Cassandra's breathing slowed to a steady pace as she straightened up and filled with a sense of calm. Slowly but steadily, more or less in one fluid motion, she raised her gun, placed the barrel against her temple, and pulled the trigger.

"This just in- sixteen year old Doug Sullivan has been charged with the rape and murder of Nick Jonas of the Jonas Brothers band. In a bizarre twist to this incredibly, _incredibly_ bizarre story, when Nick's body was found, the mouth was stuffed with dirt, as was the anus. The body was also buried in a coffin full of dirt, which eyewitnesses say was dropped from the top story of a hotel in Los Angeles. Around the same time, police discovered nine bodies, all of them teenagers, on or near the third floor of the hotel. The only survivor of this gruesome and horrifying incident, Doug Sullivan, was found and arrested soon after the bodies were discovered, and immediately confessed to- in his own words- 'the rape, murder, and subsequent rape of Nick Jonas.' Surely, there is shock and outrage across the nation that such a horrifying fate could befall such a beloved pop icon."

"Interrogate him!" seethed Becky at the screen. "He didn't act alone! What the hell did you think all those corpses were all about?! Interrogate him!!"

Becky and a few other Underground Jonas Fan Club members were watching the news report with dismay in a dimly lit basement. Of course, they weren't nearly as surprised by the events described as one might think- indeed, this was one of five likely outcomes they had been expecting.

"If only we had intercepted their reservation at the hotel a little sooner… or if we hadn't gone to confirm that it was really them…"

"It might not have been them! For all we know, they might have been bluffing by sending us the video on a day when the Jonas Brothers were passing through a blind spot unescorted…"

"Well, when else were they going to strike?!"

The girls' bickering continued for some time, and then settled into a silence that rang of defeat. For whatever reason, they had failed… they had failed their sexy, sexy hero, and his sexy, sexy brothers were next. Which one, though, was the _very_ next? Were the pop whore hunters going from youngest to oldest? Was the order random? Every girl in the room had seen the soon-to-be-infamous video tape, copies of which had now been sent to the mainstream media, the LA police, and the FBI. According to the tape, the next brother was going to die by water… only, it wouldn't really be water. What could this possibly mean?

Meanwhile, group of boys assigned to noncombat stations were also watching the news report. The mission had been successful, they decided; Nick Jonas was raped, dead, and raped some more; this was what mattered most. The casualties had been great, yes, and Doug Sullivan was in the hands of the authorities, but he had no reason to implicate anyone from his organization, except possibly the dead. The loss of manpower was also not an issue, as each brother had a separate team assigned to him, as well as two auxiliary teams in the event that the first failed. The success of the mission superseded the lives of the agents; if their entire organization was eventually found out, and each and every one of their members somehow sentenced to death, then they were still successful, so long as each and every one of the Jonas Brothers was dead before the disbandment was finished. This thought floated through the air, taking different shapes and assuming different wordings in the minds of the boys as they savored their triumph in dignified silence.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The plan had been set irreversibly in motion. There were to be no more delays and no more planning. The eggs were in the scramble, so to speak, as the pop whore hunters moved swiftly in pursuit of their goal and the underground Jonas fan club moved just as swiftly to stop them. All across America, preteen girls sobbed uncontrollably into their pillows, partly out of anguish at the death of their favorite mega-hottie, and partly because many of their respective preteen brothers had kicked them in the ovaries as a way of adding injury to insult.

Meanwhile, much revelry was had amongst most male Americans, particularly those between the ages of 12 and 25. Their drunken, anti-Jonas-themed partying belied the grim sense of purpose that gripped their unknown heroes.

Half an hour had passed since the death of Nick Jonas, and considerably less since the discovery of his body. The trappings of the information age set the stage for the barrage of media attention the pop whore hunters were soon to receive.

The trick now was to abduct Joe and Kevin simultaneously without getting caught. As luck- or rather, good planning- would have it, entry to the Jonas Brothers concert was now closed off to everyone, and the building where they were performing was now guarded at every entrance. With no one to notify those inside the building of Nick's death, and no one to tell those _outside_ that the concert was still in progress, the second abduction squad had a fairly simple task ahead of them.

In order to handle twice as many targets, the squad was twice as large as the one that had abducted Nick, sporting twelve members. As their predecessors had, they made their way down the alleyway into the blind spot that lead to the backstage area. As expected, they were stopped at the door by a guard in a black suit.

"Hold it right there, kids," he said in a deep, toneless voice. "The concert's closed to all comers. You wanna see the Jonases perform, you gotta do it some other day."

Without saying a word, a tall Asian boy named Carl withdrew a weapon from his jacket and shot a tranquilizer dart into the guard's neck. As they dragged the unconscious man away from the door, the agents mused on the irony that a Jonas Brothers' best chance for survival was not the police, nor their guards, but a bunch of teenage girls.

Had the boys planned their attack a bit better, they might have realized that these girls would most likely have thought to send a team to watch the concert through to its end. Unfortunately, they had no idea how many squads their enemy possessed, and did not anticipate the one that was currently screaming uncontrollably in the front row…

The Brothers were playing a new song at the moment- or, rather, the 'secondary' band was playing for them while the Jonases themselves struggled through a few beginner-level chords. As the hunters spread out backstage, looking for cover and keeping an eye out for security, they respectively settled into a few choice spots, crouching under tables and squeezing into closets. With any luck, the band wouldn't bring a few specially chosen girls backstage to talk about purity rings as they sometimes did… right?

"…Alright. I'm going to remove the blindfold now."

Krystal saw the boy's face appear in front of her, then move away. After taking her out of the hotel at gunpoint, he had led her to a car with tinted windows, in which he had taken her weapons, blindfolded her, and tied her up. After a long ride to someplace quiet, with asphalt, dirt, gravel, and grass comprising the ground in various places, and an air that carried no smell in particular, she had been led down a hallway with hardwood flooring, down a set of stairs to a basement with carpeting. Now, tied to a chair in said basement, she could see a television; a recliner chair; a beanbag chair; a CD rack; a doorway leading into the bathroom; small windows, about eight feet off the ground…

"-Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're scanning the entire room to figure out what might be useful to you when you make your stunning escape. Well, I'm sure you'd pose a real threat to me in hand-to-hand combat, which is why I'm not going to give you the opportunity to leave that chair."

Krystal ignored her captor and continued to scan the room. "As you are no doubt aware," continued the boy, "my friends and I are planning to kill the Jonas Brothers and blow up Disneyland. I understand that you and your friends think they can stop us."

Again, no response. The girl was now twisting herself to the left as far as she could in order to extend her peripheral vision to the area behind and to the left of her chair. Patiently, the boy went on, ignoring the fact that she was ignoring him: "Somehow, you knew which hotel we were planning to take Nick Jonas to. How did you know this?"

"We hacked into the hotel's website," she replied indifferently, "along with a number of others. We cross-referenced every reservation with what we knew about your organization, and- based on a few isolated sightings of your agents- decided that there was a strong likelihood of your using that hotel."

The boy smiled. "I'm Sam, by the way. You?"

"Krystal. How are you planning to blow up Disneyland?"

He looked away from her and began to walk slowly towards a different part of the room as he answered her. "Obviously, I can't afford to give much away… but I feel we won't exactly be entitled to credit for the explosion."

"So you've stolen some sort of powerful explosive."

His smile widened. "Sure, whatever you like," he said to her, though this answer didn't seem to make much sense.

Krystal didn't doubt Sam's words about not giving her a chance to escape. Of course, what she didn't know was that he still hadn't informed the hunters of her capture. Doing so would put her in great danger- the kind of danger she already thought herself to be in. The smug sense of power over a defeated enemy was purely an act on Sam's part; though his sense of loyalty to the cause was even now urging him to tell the others, he couldn't bring himself to do so. Somehow, it just didn't feel like the right thing to do.

Doug Sullivan was high. It was only proper, after the sort of thing he'd done. Really, he had a moral obligation to make a public appearance in an altered state of consciousness, after doing something as awesome as what he had done. _I,_ he mused to himself as he was surrounded by news reporters on a crowded sidewalk where armed guards had been escorting him, _am the strongest man in the earth._

He didn't remember how he had gotten the stuff… but he had, and just in time for his live interview. He straightened up, swaying noticeably, as a blonde female reporter approached him.

"Mr. Sullivan," she began, giving him the respect he deserved, "before you go on trial, is there anything you would like to say to the American public about your atrocious crime?"

He reflected for a few moments. "Yes," he said, slurring his speech somewhat. "There is. When I was banging that Nick faggot, I was like, 'Hey, man. Doesn't this make me gay?' …and it really made me _think, _y'know? Like, I think a lot of guys have moments where they question their own sexuality, only they aren't comfortable talking about that questioning, cause it makes them lose their confidence and shit. Me, though- I looked at Nick Jonas all naked and squirming all over the floor and shit, and I thought, 'This isn't about me. This about something bigger.' You _know?_ So I sucked it in and I just- I pictured Jessica Alba in my mind. I went for it, man. I just _went _for it… and you know what? It felt _amazing."_

Several million jaws had just dropped. No one had thought to cut Doug off at any point. He was swaying even more now, intoxicated by a rich, overpowering sense of accomplishment. Bright lights began to form before his eyes. As he opened his mouth, filling with a sense of ecstasy and wonder, the light grew brighter and brighter, to the point where it became all he could see…

"…could be stopped by the police any second. You saw those reporters… I mean, seriously- this isn't rescue; it's suicide!"

Doug awoke to these words, and realized that he was lying down and had a throbbing pain in the side of his head. Reflexively moving his hand to it, he discovered a large bump, slightly raw and wet. _I fell, _he pondered. The thought made him giggle. In response, all eyes fell upon him.

As he looked around at his fellow hunters, who were seated on long seats covering either side of the room, he noticed some rumbling around him._ I'm in a van, _he thought. "What's so funny?" asked Stan, a tall white kid. "We just saved your ass."

"Probably not the best plan of action," muttered another hunter, further away. "Now the whole country knows you weren't acting alone."

Stan stiffened. "Ex_cuse_ me?? Let me tell you something: my brother's in the military and they have a saying in the military. Know what it is?"

"-Don't ask, don't tell?"

"What?! No! …It's _no man left behind._ We're strongest if we operate as a team, and _that _means we can't just abandon someone who's fallen into enemy hands."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Cameron, an Asian kid, spoke: "Well, whether it was the right thing to do or not, it's over and done with. Doug is back in our hands and, more than anything else, we need to focus on hiding from the cops… and that includes pretty much every cop in the country."

Fred, a blonde boy, looked up. "I've got it," he said suddenly. "I know where we can go."

"_I rock you slowly,/ You are my only,/ I wanna hold you in my arms,/ Yeah, hold on to me, baby,/ Good night."_

The cheering escalated as the Jonas Brothers minus Nick finished their last song for the night. The omnipresent swarm of screaming young girls pressed in towards Joe and Kevin Jonas as they backed away, shouting "Thank you! Good night, everyone!" into the microphone before making a hasty exit.

As they walked down a hallway, away from the stage, they noticed that yet more teenage girls awaited them- about ten of them. These girls, who had looked up suddenly when Joe had opened the door the hallway, were now running excitedly towards their heroes.

"Hey, Kevin! Hey, Joe!"

"You guys are soo awesome!"

"Come backstage with us!"

Joe and Kevin were very confused by this. How and when had these girls gotten backstage? Wasn't the guard supposed to prevent that sort of thing? Or had they gotten backstage from the stage itself? If so, how on Earth had they done it without being seen?

Whatever the case, this little surprise probably just meant a few extra autographs. Just a drop in the bucket of carpal tunnel syndrome, really- not that Joe or Kevin knew what carpal tunnel syndrome was. As Kevin began to extract a pen from his pocket however, one girl said, "Oh, that's okay," shaking her head hyperactively. "We've gotten your autographs before. Photocopies, actually, but… well, forget it. Just come backstage with us, okay??"

Even more confused now, Joe and Kevin looked at one another, and then at the girls. Hesitantly, they both nodded, wondering where this was going. Hopefully, it wasn't going to take too long. They had photo shoots booked, wardrobes to renew, friends to text. One of the girls was now rushing to the door at the end of the hallway. She tossed her head back and grinned excitedly at them as she opened it, inviting them- oddly enough- into their own backstage.

As she turned to look through the door she had just opened, there was a loud bang and a sudden streak of red from her head. As she slumped against the door frame, emotional shock struck the two brothers, along with a mental realization that she was _dead._ Meanwhile, the other girls sprung to action immediately.

"Get Joe and Kevin back onstage!! Close the door; get three on it!! _Now!!"_

As a swarm of small hands efficiently dragged him backwards, it occurred to Kevin that something _else_ was wrong- not only had a young girl just died, but it looked as though the same fate was about to befall the three girls moving towards the door.

As Kevin brushed away the girls' hands, forceful though they were, and began to make his way towards the door in what genuinely felt like slow motion. Joe, for whatever reason, did not do the same, and was dragged backwards back onstage.

Whatever was going on, Kevin realized, those girls were putting themselves in incredible danger, and he knew he couldn't just stand by and watch them die. Just as the door slammed shut, he heard pounding coming from the other side of it. Completely blindsided by his attempt to get away from him, the girls who had been dragging him back were stunned for a few seconds as he moved purposefully up to the door, stopping just short of the three girls holding it shut with all their might.

"Stand back," he said calmly but loudly. The door heaved somewhat as the three girls in front of it were surprised by Kevin's voice. It splintered slightly in a few places from the beating it was receiving from both sides.

"W-what??" stammered a girl who was low to the ground, with her whole body braced upwards against the door.

"Stand back," repeated Kevin. "You all have so much to live for. It's me they want. If you try to stop whoever's out there, they'll just go through you to get to me."

Having recovered from their respective initial shocks, the girls holding the door stood their ground, while the three girls charged with escorting Kevin from the building had now caught up with him and were tugging at him, trying to get him to budge. He stumbled a little, but braced himself as the girl below the door was doing, and pulled back away from them. "It's Kevin Jonas!!" shouted a male voice from the other side of the door. "Don't shoot!"

_Perfect,_ thought Kevin to himself, a moment before ramming his entire body against the unoccupied left side of the door, smashing it apart and tumbling through to the other side…

_Mexico,_ thought Doug to himself as he sat alone in a small room in the back of a trailer. _I'm on my way to Mexico._

The trailer was a recent acquisition, hijacked by force of arms. Along their way to the border, the boys had called in various favors to get the police off their trail- fake reports, petty crimes as distractions… even direct obstruction of the officers themselves. Surprisingly, it seemed that no one had bothered to send helicopters after them. _Maybe the adults in this country hate the Jonas Brothers as much as we do,_ thought Doug as he pondered this. _Maybe people don't overvalue celebrities after all._

The trailer was now making its way down interstate 5, in the direction of Tijuana. So much had happened since this whole mess had been set in motion… and what a mess it was. That aspect of it had been unavoidable.

As Doug was thinking this, his friend, Cameron, entered the room. "Hey," greeted Cameron as he took a seat next to Doug. "Hey," replied Doug.

Doug stared at his feet for a moment. "Thanks for, like, rescuing me and stuff," he mumbled.

"No problem," replied Cameron. "No man left behind, right?" Doug nodded unconsciously. "Anyways," continued Cameron, "it looks like we can keep you safe after all. We started so close to the border, it seems unlikely they'll have much ready for us when we get there. I mean, it's been easy enough so far."

"Well, we've kind of had a lot of help…" Doug couldn't help feeling somewhat guilty. Of course, he hadn't asked to be rescued… but then again, he'd also never asked to be returned to the cops- nor did he feel inclined to ask. If so much manpower was being spent on delivering him to safety, what was going to happen to the mission? What was going to happen to the three remaining Jonas Brothers?

"Look… don't sweat it, all right?" said Cameron, sensing Doug's discomfort. "You're a hero now. You've earned that kind of help, and more. The only ones against you are stupid preteen girls and the cops… and as for the cops, I don't think their hearts are really in it, you know?" More unconscious nodding.

The two boys sat in silence for some time, brooding on all that had transpired, and all that had yet to transpire. Surely, just crossing the border wouldn't bring an end to their troubles… no, this daring escape was just the beginning.

Krystal was now free to walk around. Of course, Sam had made sure to take every precaution possible before untying her- he'd removed a jump rope and various cords that might've been tied into nooses; he'd prevented her from drowning herself by removing and throwing away the plug from the bath and shower combo, effectively making it just a shower; he'd removed every small piece of metal from the room he could find, with the hopes of keeping her from intentionally electrocuting herself with an electrical socket. In short, he'd done everything he could think of to keep Krystal from hurting or killing either him or herself.

Krystal, for her part, took it all in stride, having expected such wise moves from such a worthy opponent. She paced often, spent some time on the treadmill, paced some more, pretended to eat a sandwich from the fridge, and paced back and forth across the largest room in the basement area. It seemed there was little she could do, other than await the inevitable torture at the hands of her captor. Why hadn't he done it when she was tied up? No doubt, he intended to build up suspense, make her dread it as much as possible so that the experience was as terrifying as possible when it actually came.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps. Whipping her entire body around to face the source of the sound, she held perfectly still by force of habit as Sam unlocked the door at the top of the stairs, opened it, stepped through, closed the door, locked it again, and made his way down, his right hand holding the infernal device used to activate her electric shock collar. "Good morning, Krystal," he said complacently to her.

"Hardly," she spat- for not only was there nothing good about it; she also doubted it was morning. She hadn't been in this windowless basement _that_ long… had she? "You going to torture me or what? That was one of the reasons you kidnapped me, right? You want me to tell you what I know?" Her whole body was shaking, her fists balled, her teeth grinding uncontrollably as she seethed internally at both her captor and her predicament.

Sam put on a fake malevolent grin. Torture… she had to think she was going to be tortured, or she would sense his weakness and take advantage of it. This he knew with grim certainty. Yet… he knew with equal certainty that he could not bring himself to torture her for information. She was so young, and- as long as the shock collar was functioning and attached to her neck- so helpless. She didn't deserve that sort of degradation, that cold, stinking fear. So… what to do? He paced around her with a sense of dread inside him and an expression of malice on his face, as though he were trying to decide precisely what instrument of torture would bring her the most pain. She glared stubbornly at him from a feral stance in the middle of the room, daring him to do his worst. His worst… it would be pathetic, no doubt. An insult to the noble art of torture, no less.

A new possibility occurred to him. He ceased his pacing. "Krystal," he said to her softly, "why do you feel such loyalty to such an untalented band? Most girls your age have outgrown any interest in the Jonas Brothers. You're so sharp… you must be, to have become a field agent. Why is it that you choose to protect something so… so inferior to yourself?"

Krystal was momentarily stunned by the compliment. Then, she resumed her defiant attitude, and spat, "Inferior?! The Jonas Brothers are the biggest deal there is!! You don't appreciate the beauty of pop music, because you just assume that different always means better!" Sam showed no response to this assertion. "The Jonas Brothers represent a way of life," continued Krystal. "The way they're always in the spotlight, the way they're always surrounded by thousands of screaming fans… Stuff like that is, like, a celebration of a scene so popular that it has the power to connect millions of people. _Millions!"_

Krystal took a moment to compose herself, awaiting Sam's counterargument. Sam, for his part, wasn't interested in countering Krystal's argument so much as keeping her safe. Not only did he have to keep her safely trapped here while himself maintaining an air mercilessness; he also had to ensure neither his organization nor hers would uncover this safe haven. That wouldn't be too hard… would it? Naturally, both parties would investigate the absence of Sam's and Krystal's bodies… but to what extent? After all, as Sam recalled, the success of the mission mattered more than any individual life…

…_but not more than hers, _added a small voice in his head.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Can someone explain to me what the heck was going on back there??"

Joe Jonas shouted these words emphatically for the second time in as many minutes, attempting to elicit a response from the teenage girls driving and sitting around him in the van in which he was now riding. The girls hadn't bothered to restrain him; of course, due to an overwhelming sense of shock and confusion, he hadn't really tried to resist them at any point. His numb mind was still struggling to register what he had seen- the flash of red… the girl falling to the floor, slumping against the doorframe… she was _dead._ She had been shot and killed, and now she was _dead._ As if that weren't enough, Kevin and most of the remaining girls had been left behind backstage, while he, Joe, had been ferried back onstage and through a mass of screaming, crazed, oblivious fans to the building's front entrance.

As these thoughts rushed through his dazed stream of consciousness, Joe's question was answered by a blonde girl with glasses. "There was an ambush," she said curtly. "We had to get you out of there as quickly as possible."

Joe considered this answer for a moment. "…but what about the girls who were left behind?" he asked. "Why didn't they come with us?"

"If they had come with us," replied a short girl with brown hair, "then there would be no one left to defend the hallway. They had to stay, to hold off the attackers long enough for us to get you to safety."

Another question occurred to Joe Jonas. "What attackers? What is this all about?"

There was an uneasy silence. Evidently, Joe was still unaware of the death of his younger brother.

"Well…" began one girl hesitantly, "they're basically terrorists… not like the ones behind 9/11," she added, remembering the mind to which she was conveying this important information. "We believe them to be based completely in America. They… they want to kill everyone in your band."

The news hit Joe like a pulse of electricity. "Oh, and they also want to blow up Disneyland," added the girl with glasses.

"Wh-… why would someone want to kill _us?" _asked Joe, visibly shaken.

"They're boys," said a blonde girl cynically, looking out the window with her arms crossed. "They're obviously jealous of a band full of total hotties, so they tried to improve their odds by eliminating the competition."

Since Joe had long since trained his ears to filter out the white noise of young girls complimenting his appearance, he had some difficulty extracting meaning from this statement. "What?" he asked.

The girl wasn't sure how to make her point more clearly than that, so she changed the subject. "The important thing isn't _why_ they're trying to kill you- we know for a fact that we can't talk them out of it anyway. The important thing is that they _are_ trying to kill you, and that they have a lot of resources at their disposal, and that we need to do everything in our power to keep you safe.

Joe thought for a moment before posing his next question. "What about Kevin?" he asked. "He's in danger, too, right? So, why was he left behind?"

The girls shifted uneasily. "Well," said one, "from what I saw, he was resisting the girls who were trying to bring him back onstage with you. It… it was a hard decision, but I, for one, decided to save the Jonas brother that I _could_ save rather than trying to change your brother's mind. I'm… I'm sorry." The other girls chimed in, mumbling their apologies as well. Joe didn't really blame them for what had happened… but at the same time, he was extremely worried about Kevin. Why had he stayed behind? Why on Earth had he not made his way to safety?? Then, something else struck Joe… something somehow more terrifying than any other realization that today had brought.

"…and Nick…" he began softly, "…he wasn't there during the concert. He's been gone for hours." The girls stared at him, not daring to show any kind of expression at all. Joe, a sense of deep horror welling up inside him, went on, "So… they probably have him, right? Those people who want to kill us have Nick?"

The girls looked at one another, at the floor, out the window- anywhere but Joe himself- for what seemed like ages. Then, the cynical blonde girl spoke: "They don't have him, Joe." She cringed as he breathed a sigh of relief, misunderstanding her, so she corrected herself: "They don't have him because he's dead."

For the longest time, Joe was completely frozen, completely numb to the incredible pain that these words held for him. It surged in upon him slowly, as tiny sparks of comprehension began to flicker through his stunned mind. As these words echoed in his mind and a psychological defense mechanism slowly lifted the veil from their meaning, his head fell down, down into his lap, his whole body shaking, every girl in the van watching him and wishing to share his burden, yet unable to do so, for they could never know Nick as Joe had- his brother, his youngest brother… as the inevitable stream of wild, anguished thoughts flooded into Joe's mind, the van rumbled on silently into the night.

_Tijuana,_ he thought, breathing deeply this newfound- if short-lived- sense of safety. Getting past the border had been as simple as tranquilizing a few guards- up close, of course, so that nearby guards had no way of seeing that entry was being forced. The step had become necessary when one guard showed signs of intense nervousness, no doubt recognizing the teenage boys as the criminals now famous and infamous nation-wide.

As for Tijuana itself, the city now stood before Doug as he stepped out of the trailer, which was parked on the side of the road some distance away. They had just driven through the city on their way to a safe stopping place away from the buildings and people. The danger was not gone, that much he knew- but it was much, much less than what it had been. Life was good, and he could finally take some time to relax. Raping Nick Jonas hadn't been easy- though he'd enjoyed inflicting pain, humiliation and death upon the scum of the Earth that the media calls a "pop icon," Doug had also struggled with some confusion over his own sexuality. Some of the discomfort still lingered with him, but he did his best to brush it away, soaking in the comfort of that wonderfully warm night south of the border.

Sam had made up his mind. Though he couldn't bring himself to torture Krystal, he decided that he had no choice but to put on a show and make her think he would. He would threaten her with the shock collar, and let her know he wasn't someone to be trifled with. She, in turn, would bide her time in the basement, and so remain safe. These thoughts drove him as he marched to the door to the basement, shock collar controller in hand. He opened the door and began to walk down the stairs, turning his gaze to Krystal.

"Alright, time's up," he told her authoritatively. "You've left me no choice but to-"

He froze. Krystal's shock collar was gone. He barely had time to toss the remote aside before she lunged at him.

As Kevin stepped through to door into the hands of his attackers, these hands seized him, dragging him away from his fans. As he was carried away, he turned his head to the latter, shouting, "Go! Get back to the stage!!" before a group of armed hunters moved back to the doorway, blocking the girls from view. Kevin watched anxiously, fearing more gunfire, but none came. The boys, it seemed, had the doorway quite effectively blocked, and the girls on the other side were uncertain of whether they should heed Kevin's words or attempt to fight through the hunters. The choice was made for them, it seemed, as Kevin was quickly dragged out of the backstage area through a backdoor to an alley, where a guard- dead, it looked like- was lying on the ground. From there Kevin was blindfolded, tied up, and forced into the trunk of a car. Duct tape was also wrapped tightly over his mouth. He was then driven away from the alley.

As he lay cramped in the dark trunk- not that it mattered that it was dark, since he was wearing a blindfold- Kevin began to wonder exactly what was in store for him. When he had offered himself to his captors, he'd been thinking of the girls, not of himself- it wasn't even that he was being selfless; he _hadn't thought_ _at all_ about what might happen to him. Given the same choice again, he'd do the same thing again, but… well, all of a sudden, he was a little scared. These people all had guns, so escape was almost definitely out of the question. It dawned on him that these people must have been responsible for Nick's disappearance. Was he going to see his younger brother when this car arrived at its destination? Such thoughts floated through his mind as the motion of the car jostled him around, at one point causing him to bang his head on what felt like an Xbox a few times. He reflexively tried to lift his hands up to rub his head, but of course, his hands were still tied up, so he just struggled for a few moments before giving up and shifting his weight to move his head to a safer spot.

After some time- he had no idea exactly how long- the car came to a stop. Some light shone through the blindfold as he heard the trunk open, and several hands lifted him roughly, slid some sort of plastic bag over his whole body, and then placed him in some kind of large wooden box. This box was then carried through an area full of noise- the sounds of cars and people were everywhere. Kevin struggled as much as he could, attempting to bang on the sides of the box with his feet, but he was confined to such a small space that it was difficult to get his legs moving quickly enough.

Gradually, those noises softened into silence. All he could hear were the footsteps of the people carrying him. After a few very anxious minutes, the lid was lifted from the box and his blindfold removed. He sat up immediately.

Looking around, he saw that he was in a cemetery- deep within a cemetery, out of sight of anyone but the boys who had taken him there. As his eyes wandered from the faraway gravestones to his own position, he realized that he was amongst some bushes. His captors dragged the box, which he was still sitting in, further into bushes, where even a visitor who entered this part of the cemetery would be unable to see him.

As a cold sweat began to form on his brow, he saw one of his captors lift a black box from somewhere in the bushes. Inside the box was a sort of airtight hard plastic mask, with a long rubber tube connected to the mouth; a funnel; and a bottle of hand lotion. The duct tape was ripped from his face, and his mouth was free for just a moment before the mask was fitted over it. He watched from his seated position as the funnel was attached to the free end of the tube with duct tape, and nestled in a bush maybe three feet off the ground, open end facing upwards. Four or more firm hands held his head and shoulders in place as one of the remaining boys squirted a glob of hand lotion onto his left hand, and then passed the bottle to his neighbor. The first boy rubbed the lotion all over both his hands, as thoroughly as possible, and then began to unzip his fly. Realizing at last what was going to happen to him, Kevin began to struggle, but the hands on him only gripped him more tightly, and no matter how much he tried, he could hardly budge an inch in any direction. His screams were muffled by the mask as his mouth opened and closed silently inside it, trying to call for help, praying that someone- _anyone-_ might come to his rescue…

The rape of Kevin Jonas had begun.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Krystal had her hands around Sam's throat within a second. He just barely managed to wrench them away before she could begin choking the life out of him. He whipped his right knee around, swinging it against her left hip and dodging her left arm as he made his way behind her. Wrapping his right arm under her chin and fighting off her arms with his left arm, he pressed her against the wall, flipping her arms upward as he did so to trap them at useless angles. He pressed her down onto to her knees, taking away the leverage she needed to pull herself away. His mind raced, trying to think of a way to end the conflict without seriously hurting her. At the moment, however, there was little he could do besides restrain her and so prevent her from getting at his throat again. As she began to thrash away from him, he pressed down on her harder, ensuring that her struggling would get her nowhere. He soon had both of her hands pinned against the wall with his. She attempted to twist away for a few seconds; failed and was still again; made another attempt; and then was still once more. Through his chest, Sam felt her shoulders relax slightly as she gave up on getting away for the time being.

There was an awkward silence as Sam collected his thoughts. Then he made a decision to do something that could be very dangerous, especially considering that Krystal had just tried to kill him: he told her the truth.

"Krystal," he said, forcing the name out against the oppressive awkwardness, "there's something you should probably know." He slowly loosed his grip on her wrists, and then let his hands fall to his sides. To his surprise, Krystal did not attempt to wield her freed hands against him. He took this as a sign that he should continue: "When I brought you here- to this house, whose owners are out town- I was taking you to one of hundreds of similar houses, every one of which my organization keeps tabs on." He gave her a moment to absorb this information, and then continued: "Though our database keeps track of which houses are unoccupied and for how long, we keep no record of what we use each house for, or when… my point is that I'm the only one who knows you're here. I haven't told any of the other hunters."

He stood up, backing away from her slightly. She was still for a moment, and then turned to look at him, confused.

"What's the point in having me here if your organization doesn't know? Don't you want to keep them up to date on that sort of thing?"

"Well… the thing is," said Sam, working his way up to the heart of his confession, "I didn't bring you here to torture you, or anything like that. I mean, at first, I thought a live captive would be useful, but when I actually stopped and thought about what that would entail, I realized I couldn't go through with it. I couldn't torture someone. The reason I'm still keeping you here… is to keep you safe."

Naturally, Krystal was surprised, but she let little expression show on her face as she looked away from Sam, thinking to herself.

"I didn't tell you before," he continued, "because I thought you'd, you know, see it as weakness and kill me, and stuff."

"No," muttered Krystal absently, "no, it's okay. I wasn't gonna do that."

Without another word to Sam, she got up, composed herself, and went to bed. Sam simply stared silently at her as he stood in a muddle of anticipation. After a couple minutes, he decided that he was safe for the time being, and retired to bed himself, wondering how Krystal had so accurately determined the time.

"This just in: as if the rape and murder of Nick Jonas weren't terrible enough, it seems that the same fate has befallen his brother, Kevin. Police say Kevin Jonas's body was found in a cemetery, with a strange plastic mask over his face. The cause of death was extremely disturbing- it seems that Kevin literally drowned in semen."

The hunters watching the broadcast were now laughing hysterically. They'd known this was coming, of course, but it still tickled them to think that their fellows had actually gone through with it- that a cocksucker like Kevin Jonas had met a fate so fitting. The laughter went on for some time, then died down a bit, and then went back into full swing once more.

"…The perpetrators of this heinous crime were not found, nor was any sign of them, other than the semen found in Kevin's throat. Police are desperately searching for some sign of their identity, but if no DNA match is found, it could be quite a long search indeed."

By this point, the laughter had died down completely, and the boys were sitting and watching the broadcast complacently.

"While it seems likely that there is a connection between Kevin's murder and that of his brother, Nick, police have not yet ruled out the possibility that Kevin's killers were simply imitators of Doug Sullivan, the teenager who raped and murdered Nick Jonas."

"'Imitators'… yeah, they're pretty much completely clueless," observed a tall, redheaded hunter. "If I remember correctly, we put together our plan for killing Kevin _before_ the one for Nick. That's ironic."

The other hunters muttered their agreement. There was something not quite right about the broadcast… if the police were so intent on catching the Jonas brothers' killers, then why were they being so slow to chase Doug Sullivan into Tijuana?

Meanwhile, in Tijuana, Doug slept under a starry sky. His unconscious mind was troubled by dreams of what he'd done; mental images of Nick Jonas's naked ass flitted through his mind. He saw himself from outside his body, humping Nick fiercely, drawing his head back in ecstasy and shouting the name "Jessica" over and over. He saw his own cum gushing out of him- first into the gory hole in Nick's pelvis, and then into his eye sockets. He heard Nick's screams of pain: a whiny falsetto, screeching into the dark, private silence. He saw his sweat and Nick's drenching them both, trickling from one body to the other along with Nick's blood and Doug's semen.

Doug felt intensely dirty. He began to shake uncontrollably, his grip on Nick weakening. Nick, now on his hands and knees, stopped screaming and looked up at Doug, puzzled. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Don't you want my tender, boyish ass? Lots and lots of preteen girls do; that's for sure."

Doug shook his head in horror and disbelief. Was Nick… _enjoying_ this?? No- no, it couldn't be. Those screams of pain were real enough, and his blood was everywhere, all over the floor…

"C'mon," whispered Nick seductively, his eyeless face grinning as he swayed his bleeding ass side to side. "Don't you wanna dive back in? Don't you wanna feel my warm ass-blood streaming all over your hard cock, don't you…"

"-AAAAAAAGH!!!" Doug awoke in cold sweat, sitting straight up. It had been a dream, and nothing more… this he thought to himself as he curled up into a ball, shaking, looking at the landmarks around him to reassure himself that _this _was the real world, not that hell he had seen and felt in his in dream.

…and besides, Nick was dead- dead as could be. His body was so horribly disfigured, and dirt filled his mouth and ass… it had been on the news; he had been arrested for it… _How odd_, thought Doug, _that the fact that I was arrested is comforting to me._ Really, it was not so odd; his arrest made Nick Jonas's death all the more real, the brutal rape that much further behind him.

…but _had _it been rape? In spite of Doug's common sense, he couldn't help remembering the dream's message, which had been all too clear: _Nick Jonas had enjoyed it. _In spite of everything he knew about Nick's Christian background; the dorky, upbeat nature of the songs he sang; and a complete lack of any real evidence suggesting at the possibility, Doug couldn't shake the feeling that it was, indeed, a possibility. The images permanently burned in his mind from the actual rape were bad enough- now, on top of those, he saw the gay little grin on Nick's gay little face; the puckering of his tight, horny little asshole; and- worst of all- Nick's face on Jessica Alba's body.

"…Are you okay?" asked a voice from the darkness anxiously. Doug snapped out of his traumatic thoughts and looked for the source. As the sound of footsteps came closer, he saw Jimmy, one of his fellow hunters, stop running just short of his sleeping bag.

"…I'm fine," Doug announced after a long, awkward pause. "I… I just had a bad dream."

Even in the darkness, Doug thought he saw understanding dawn on Jimmy's face. "Ohh… about Nick, yeah. That makes sense."

"Yeah, it's fine, though. You can go back to bed."

Jimmy hesitated to leave. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again. "I mean, damn, dude… you've been through some shit."

_Literally,_ added Doug in his mind. Aloud, though, he simply said "Yeah, yeah, I'm _fine._ Everything's fine. Just go get some sleep, okay?"

After a couple moments' more hesitation, Jimmy replied "Okay," and returned to the trailer, glancing back at Doug a couple times as he went.

Doug lay back down again, a little embarrassed about the attention he was receiving. He supposed it was odd that he hadn't woken up more of the hunters, but then again, they had all been through a lot. It made sense that they would be tired enough to sleep soundly.

He, however, had been through a little _too _much to sleep any more that night. He looked up at the stars, wishing their vast, impersonal light to rinse away his troubled thoughts.

Joe Jonas was equally restless that night. He was stricken not only with intense grief at the murder of Nick and the probable murder of Kevin, but also with fear- fear for his own life, the lives of those brave girls trying to protect him, and for all the people in Disneyland when these "terrorists" blew it up. What could possibly fill these people with the sort of hate that would make them do such things? What had his band done to incite such wrath?

He was spending the night in a "safe house," where the fan club decided he should stay until the conflict could be resolved. The house was under top security, whatever that meant, as the fan club was determined not to let the terrorists take him as they had tried to at the concert.

A sense of guilt began to mingle with Joe's other painful emotions. Had his band done something to offend these people? Their actions couldn't possibly represent mere jealously. Something that the Jonas Brothers had said or done at some point must have been a slap in the face to the deeply held beliefs of some group… but how? What beliefs? What had he done that was so wrong?

Unbidden, images of his brothers' deaths, as he imagined them, flashed through Joe's mind. Stabbed, shot, poisoned- each fate he imagined befalling his brothers agonized him. He curled up into the fetal position on his bed in this hidden, underground room that was part of a hidden, underground complex. Strangely, he felt horribly guilty for being so safe- safe in this hidden location when his brothers hadn't been, when they hadn't had any warning, their lives snuffed out in an instant. He felt he didn't deserve to be this safe …

…but at the same time, he couldn't leave this safety. It was for the best, he thought, trying to calm himself down by at least one notch. He couldn't let the actions of these girls be in vain, nor the death of that one poor girl… it occurred to him that there might have been other deaths. Cold sweat gripped him as myriad icy, painful thoughts slid through his mind like blades, crippling him, making him wish he had died as well…

Joe Jonas got no sleep that night. How could he?


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"So… the Sullivan case."

The other officers looked up from their newspapers at Officer Reginald. He was resting his chin on his right hand, which was balled into a fist, while his left forearm lay on the table. He had mentioned the case with the air of someone who is bringing up an unpleasant task that he knows he must complete eventually, but has been avoiding for some time. The other officers, sharing his attitude, looked pointedly away from him, trying hard to think of a response.

"Yes… we should really head down to Mexico and find him, shouldn't we?"

"Seems like a good plan."

There was a very uncomfortable silence before a particularly hefty officer spoke quite suddenly, introducing the first words into the conversation that were notforced:

"Look, my daughter- she's a _huge_ Jonas Brothers fan. I've never seen her more upset over anything. I know we're all sick of seeing those prissy Jonas cunts on television and whatnot, but… well, it just makes me feel guilty to think that we would look the other way when there are a lot of kids out there counting on us to carry out their idea of justice."

The other officers stared at him thoughtfully. Then, one asked, "Who's looking the other way?" The man who'd just spoken stared at him, quite confused, before he broke into a wide grin. "…_We're _heading down to Tijuana right now to catch that crazy bastard."

Heartened by the new sense of purpose attached to catching Doug Sullivan, the policemen got up from the table in unison, preparing to head out and do their job at last.

Joe kept to himself for most of the day. He found that he was not hungry enough to eat breakfast, and so spurned the solicitations of his rescuers. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, embracing the numbness that was, no doubt, an aftereffect of the previous day's overload of emotion.

_They'll be coming for me next, _he realized. _They'll be finished with Kevin by now, which means I'm the only one left_. The idea brought him calm; in a perverse sort of way, he felt himself hoping that these terrorists would finish the job- that they would not leave him alive while his brothers, his flesh and blood, integral parts of his life, were dead and beyond retrieval. _If they finish what they started, _he thought with deliberation, _at least then I'll be reunited with Joe and Kevin._

As he continued to stare up at the ceiling, his vision blurring slightly, he thought for a moment that he could feel the ceiling staring back into him.

Krystal was deeply conflicted. This boy, Sam, had saved her life, risking estrangement from his organization and possibly even termination by his peers. At the same time, it did not seem as though he would give her free reign to leave the house if she chose, for by permitting her to return to the underground Jonas fan club, he would be endangering both her life and his own. She toyed with the idea of escaping, but not telling her fellows Sam's whereabouts- yet even this seemed like a betrayal somehow. She communicated little with Sam- strangely, he was harder to talk to now, as an ally, than he had been as a bitter enemy.

"I've just gotten word that Kevin Jonas has been killed," said Sam from outside her room, snapping her out of her reverie. "Joe Jonas is currently under the protection of your organization, which means it will take a much greater loss of life to get to him that would otherwise have been the case."

_A much greater loss of life_… hadn't enough life been lost already? Did he, Sam, not have the right idea by hiding out here, away from it all, until it all died down? Krystal was mildly surprised to find that she cared little that Kevin Jonas had died. This was, after all, quite odd, considering that she had been a long-standing member of the most hardcore Jonas fan club ever founded.

As she had not responded noticeably to the news, Sam walked away from the door. She listened passively to his footsteps as they grew quieter. She mused that it was a disorienting way of living, spending the days without a clock or watch of any kind in sight; relying on a single person, whom she knew to belong to an enemy organization, for news of the outside world; and having the same meals, the same exercise on the same treadmill, the same day, every day of every nebulous week. "There is no escaping the days," she said to herself quietly, as though she expected these words to prove of great importance at some later time.

Doug Sullivan and his crew were preparing to set out on the road once more. They had realized that they couldn't stay long in Tijuana, lest the authorities finally catch up with them. They were going to travel southeast to Santa Ana, and from there into the heart of Mexico. In spite of the efforts they had made and had yet to make, every one of them knew that Doug would not have been successfully hidden until the police had given up looking for him- if they hadn't already done so, at least. In any event, it couldn't hurt to be cautious.

As Doug was packing his things, he mused that he couldn't help associating the act of running from the authorities with that of running from his demons. Perhaps, he hoped, this next move would be the one that took him far, far away from that hotel room where the nightmare had taken place. Distracted by this thought, he began to pack more slowly, eventually stopping completely and staring off into space. Then, stricken by a new resolve, he resumed packing more quickly than before, neatly efficiently placing his things in the bag in front of him, as a machine might do. He was now more determined than ever to leave Mickey's bitch behind him.

Back in the United States, one pop whore hunter base in particular was abuzz with activity. Everywhere, various weapons were being cleaned and loaded in preparation for what was bound to be the bloodiest fight since the war on Jonas had begun. Other attacks were to be launched on the same day and at the same time, but this one was by far the most important, as the target was the enemy base in which intel believed Joe Jonas was being kept.

The work was carried out with grim, tacit purposefulness, for each agent preparing to head into battle was well aware that a high death tally on both sides was a near certainty; each boy was aware that he might not live to see the next week, or that every other agent he saw as he made his way about the base was facing the same risk. On the other hand- thought it brought little comfort- everyone was aware that it would be a smooth, downhill ride after this battle was waged, for in all phases of the plan that were to follow, the pop whore hunters had a major upper hand.

Finally, all preparations were complete, and the soldiers reported to their commanding officer with the haste and discipline that he had come to expect of them. After a quick head count, he announced, "As you all know, this will be our greatest hour. I need not remind you that once Joe Jonas is killed, that godawful band- whose demise we have sought for so long- will be no more."

Nods and curt murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd.

"It is imperative that you all remember that Joe Jonas's death is our primary goal. If we seem to be fighting a losing battle, then it is our responsibility to shoot him where he stands, rather than attempt to take him alive and die doing so. This is our _only chance. _As I have told you before, intel believes that Joe will be ferried to an even more secure location if we do not take action now. Keep that in mind, and fight for the glory of the cause. _Down with talentless pop whores_!"

"_Down with talentless pop whores!" _echoed the crowd fervently. With that, they marched out of the abandoned warehouse and into the abandoned lot, where they boarded their respective vans, which left at two-minute intervals- so as not to be conspicuous- until the lot was completely empty.

Joe, who had been sitting on his bed, staring at the floor, experienced a sudden prickling sensation, which coursed through his body, causing him to twitch slightly. He was on edge thinking about the imminent danger he faced, though this was by far preferable to thinking about what had happened to his brothers. _If they come, _he thought with an overpowering sense of finality, _they can have me._ He shuddered slightly. He stood up. He sat back down again. He decided to lie down, in order to calm his nerves. Try as he might, though, he couldn't alleviate this strange jittery feeling that shook him to his core. He lost track of the passage of time, became lost in his thoughts, until-

-A loud crash came from another part of the building. It was not a house, strictly speaking, but a combination of rooms that one might find in a house and ones that might have been more at home in a prison. The crash, he knew, was some distance away, but it still sent a jolt through his entire body, for there was no question over what it could mean.

He walked very quickly, with long, vaguely nervous strides, opening each door he came to in a single fluid motion. Within seconds of the initial crash, the sounds of gunshots reached his ears. He quickened his pace to a run. Along the way, he was passed by a group of armed fangirls, and quickened his pace, so as to reach the terrorists before they did. It was a race, he realized, a race to determine who would be sacrificed to save whom. He sprinted past them, surprising them greatly so that they did not have time to call out or try to stop him before he reached the last door…

The strange rushing noise in his head died instantly. He had opened the door and stepped through it in a single motion, as he had done with the others, and he now stood at the top of a balcony, with stairs down on either side, overlooking the entryway to the building. The door lay smashed and splintered on the floor in front of the doorway. There had clearly been chaos on the ground below just prior to his arrival, but now that he was in plain sight of both sides of the battle, he saw them staring up at him with wide eyes- the girls who had helped to rescue him, and the boys who sought to kill him- shocked that he had presented himself in plain sight. Scanning the room, he was relieved to see that the shots he'd heard must have missed, for he could see no dead bodies.

"There will be no blood spilled here today," he announced, meeting the eyes of the nearest terrorist. "If you want me… you can have me."

Ignoring pained outcries from his fangirls, he deftly slid down the banister and hit the ground walking into the arms of the enemy. Considering their initial surprise, they were very quick to get ahold of him, running forwards as he spoke so that they almost met him at the bottom of the stairs. They forced his arms behind his back, shoved something rubbery into his mouth, blindfolded him, lifted him bodily, and carried him away- all with such superb coordination that it took a matter of a few seconds. The girls, for their part, watched helplessly as Joe met their eyes- at least up until the blindfold was on- pleading silently that they not fight to take him back, that they save themselves. Whether out of respect for his wishes or a fear of putting a bullet through him by accident, they did not fire on the terrorists as they carried Joe Jonas off to what would surely be the end of his suffering.

It was over, just like that. It had been all too easy. Why had Joe Jonas, the gayest of douchebags, just handed himself over to those who sought to kill him? Had he understood what would happen to him? Was it possible, somehow, that this was a trick? This concern must have been on the mind of every hunter in the van with him, for they all stared at him uneasily, as though he might somehow break free of his bonds and strike out against them.

"That must be Joe Jonas," posited the boy in charge. "If there is a trap waiting for us, it'll be in the form of an attack on our van."

There was a very pregnant pause. Joe lay perfectly still, save for the rise and fall of his chest and a very slight, barely noticeable shaking. They had all the equipment they needed… was now the time? Was this the place?

Fear pounded through every vein in Joe's body. He was about to die; this he knew with absolute certainty. It took every ounce of self-control he had to keep from struggling as forceful hands hoisted him upright. He felt something cold and metal wrap all the way around his neck, putting just the slightest amount of pressure on the sensitive skin- he could not control his shivering now- and then came the most unexpected part of all.

The hands undid his pants and slid them down, along with his underwear. As the smell of his own fear filled his nostrils and uncomfortable warmth spread to him from the bodies around him- as a pair of hands gripped his waist and the cold metal thing around his neck began to tighten ever so slowly- he realized that he was about to get more than he'd bargained for.

The rape of Joe Jonas had begun.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Mario Sanchez felt immensely satisfied. He, the founder and current leader of the pop whore hunters, had just seen his organization's wok- hell, his _life's_ work- essentially come to fruition. The call had just come through on his cell that Joe was thoroughly raped and thoroughly dead. Knowing full well that there was still the matter of the fourth Jonas Brother- not to mention that of Disneyland- to attend to, he got a can of mountain dew out of his fridge, opened it, and took a deep, hearty sip as he deftly lifted and activated his DS, starting a new game in Golden Sun.

Just as the title screen appeared, someone began pounding on his front door. A bit pissed, but certainly not sensing any danger, Mario turned off his DS, laid it on the table he was sitting at, got up, and made his way to the door, mountain dew still in hand.

"Yes?" he said, opening it.

"Yes," spat the blonde girl standing outside, who was a bit shorter than he was. "I was just wondering what the _fuck _has been going on lately."

Mario blinked at her, shocked by the outburst. This, he realized, must be a very upset Jonas Brothers fan- but how, _how_ had she found him? How did she know he was at the top of the organization?

Accepting it as inevitable that at least some secrets of a top-secret organization would eventually be found out by determined enemies, Mario had worked to encourage the myth- at least in the lower levels of the pop whore hunters- that there was no single leader, but rather a shared plan from which various low-level commanders drew various smaller goals and strategies.

"_Excuse me, but I'm talking to you!" _snarled the girl, interrupting Mario's train of thought. He realized that there were now tears in her eyes. "Because of you, the Jonas Brothers are dead! _Dead!_ You fucking _killed_ my _ex-boyfriend!"_

Mario stared blankly at her, at a total loss for words by this point. "Your… your ex-boyfriend?" he finally asked meekly.

At this, she seemed to snap to an even greater degree than she had already done. _"YES, MY FUCKING EX-BOYFRIEND!!" _she screamed. _"DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO I AM??!"_

Thoroughly frightened by this point, Mario shook his head side to side as many times as he dared, which happened to be slightly more than one but definitely not two. He took a few steps backwards as the girl began to advance on him, screaming at the top of her lungs:

"_I'M MILEY FUCKING CYRUS!!!"_

Far from making him feel better, being on the road again left Doug feeling more alone with his thoughts than ever. Gone were the buildings and landscape that grew more familiar by the day; gone was the open sky above him, in which his problems seemed- to some slight degree, at least- to evaporate, like one's sweat on a hot summer's day. He felt as though he were alone with the deed he had done; he feared seeing Nick Jonas's bloody, eyeless corpse everywhere he looked; his nightmares were getting worse than ever. He felt colder, sicker, and filthier than he had ever felt in his life.

"Aw, fuck! Is that a police chopper?"

Doug sprang to his feet at the sound of these words, devoutly thankful for something, anything to distract him from the awful, crawling darkness inside him. He opened a nearby bag and withdrew a hand pistol on his way out the door.

Without really thinking about what he was doing, he walked by the others, who were staring out the window; barely stopped long enough to glance at the helicopter that must have been moving at about the same speed as the trailer, but was also slowly approaching it; climbed up a ladder; opened the hatch at the top; and got partway out and onto the roof of the trailer, leaving his legs inside so as not to fall off.

"Stop the trailer!" The voice came to him through a megaphone. The beginnings of an idea sparked in his head. Lowering his head back into the trailer and looking at the other hunters, who had not noticed him climbing up the ladder, he repeated the order: "Stop the trailer."

They whipped their heads around to look at him. Visibly a bit confused, they nevertheless all rushed to the driver together in order to relay Doug's wish. After a few tense seconds, the trailer began slowing to a stop, and his comrades returned, looking at him expectantly. As he climbed back up, onto the roof, he saw that the helicopter was preparing to land some thirty feet away. Gripping the pistol tightly in his hand, he felt a twisted smile spread across his face. Nick was not about to have the last laugh.

"Drop your weapon! Put your hands in the air!" Police officers swarmed towards the trailer, pointing their guns at the crazy boy on the roof. He threw back his head, laughing, which made them all a bit uneasy.

"You're going to kill me! You're going to see to it that there's justice!" Doug cried out, a wide grin still on his face, his bottled-up madness spilling out of him all at once. "You know what justice is?!" None of them spoke. "Justice," he went on, lifting his hands to his sides somewhat in a theatrical sort of gesture, "is when I rape and kill the faggiest pop star alive, only to realize that he fucking _liked it! _He liked it! Nick Jonas was asking for it, and I gave it to him, and that's a worse punishment than the justice system can _ever_ give me."

As he let out that horrible laugh once more, the police officers shuffled around a bit, anticipating some sort of sudden ambush. Doug ignored them. "…but Nick won't have the last laugh! Oh, no!" As he lifted his pistol, the police prepared to fire. To their surprise, however, he pointed it not at them, but at his own head.

"Thanks to him," Doug said tonelessly, his eyes already beginning to gloss over with the liquid numbness of death, "my dick will never be clean." He pulled the trigger.

Mario, bewildered as he was, slowly came to realize that Hannah Montana seemed to be unarmed, and that he was therefore probably in little danger of bodily harm. Still, he couldn't help backing away as she made towards him, shouting herself hoarse, calling him a murder, a sick bastard, a monster. It struck him as incredibly foolish that he had not included her in his plan- even with the Jonas brothers gone, hadn't there been a possibility that she might stick around, writing more obnoxious songs about vague rebelliousness and a sassy attitude? Well, not anymore. He had already pressed a button underneath the counter that would silently send an alarm signal to a nearby outpost. All that was left was to stall for time and make sure Miley Cyrus didn't leave. This, of course, seemed as though it would be laughably easy, were he in any mood to laugh.

"…_deserve to die after what you've done! How the fuck could you even do something so twisted and wrong?!"_ Surprisingly enough, Mario found that his frantic thoughts were doing a fairly good job of tuning out her screams of rage. Just as she drew breath in preparation to continue her diatribe, however, the sound of approaching footsteps became audible. Looking past Miley Cyrus, Mario saw a young girl who must have been her little sister running towards them, before stopping just as short of him as Miley was. _"What did you do to Frankie?!"_ demanded the child, just as angrily as her older sister.

This was just too much. It was completely implausible that anyone could know that his organization had Frankie Jonas hostage at this very moment in one of their secret bases. He was supposed to be at camp, but just prior to the kidnapping of Nick Jonas, hunters had kidnapped him and replaced him with a lookalike who was extremely well-trained for the job. The lookalike stunt had only been pulled for one Jonas Brother, as it had been extremely difficult to find someone whose appearance qualified and who was prepared to impersonate the hostage.

…So, what could have gone wrong? Just as Mario's panic was beginning to escalate, however, he saw the backup he had called for rushing into his house. Miley turned her head at the sound of their footsteps just as they were running towards her. Mario felt a sharp pang of guilt as the agents covered Miley's and her sister's mouths with duct tape to prevent them from screaming anymore, and tied their hands behind their respective backs to stop them struggling. "Perhaps," he said hastily, as though the agents were on the brink of killing the girls then and there, "we should keep them as hostages. They could come very much in handy when we reach the final stage of the operation."

If the hunters were surprised that their leader had not ordered that they commit yet another rape-murder, they didn't show it. Gruffly, two of them sat the two girls down on a nearby couch, as another made for the door so that he could close and lock it.

_What a mess,_ thought Mario, horrified, looking into the girls' eyes, which were wide with fear. _What a godawful mess…_

"This just in: it seems that whoever was behind the deaths of Nick and Kevin Jonas has just succeeded in wiping out the entire band. The body of Joe Jonas was found in an abandoned van in Los Angeles just a few hours ago, naked, with signs of being brutally raped by numerous attackers. Police have released reports stating that the cause of death was asphyxiation caused by a strange device found near the body. As Jonas fans everywhere mourn the loss of the last Jonas brother along with the other two, it is little comfort to know that this horrible, tragic series of rapes and murders is finally at an end."

Sam, who had already learned everything he needed to know from the hunters' secret website, gleaned no new information from this broadcast. Still, there was something inexplicably comforting about the old media; the screen, the reporter's familiar face, and the shots of the van from a news helicopter all somehow worked to reassure Sam in a way that his organization's website had not. Joe Jonas was dead; it was over. Surely, the pop whore hunters would soon release footage of Frankie Jonas's rape and murder. Then, they would blow up Disneyland. Then, it would all be over, and Sam could return to the peaceful life he had lived before he'd made the rash decision of joining up with these psychopaths.

It occurred to him that this was something Krystal might want to know about. How would she react? It seemed as though she would be even less likely to attack him than before now that the war was over… or would she be enraged by the death of the final member of her favorite band? Sam debated inwardly for some time before making up his mind and heading down to the basement.

"Krystal?" he called to her as he opened the door and began to walk down the stairs. "I've just seen on the news that Joe Jonas is dead. Reports from the hunters say that he let himself be taken without a fight. Only he was killed- no one else."

"That's great," replied Krystal, as she approached him from behind a corner. She sounded her usual calm self, but also sincere.

Sam merely nodded in response. A thoughtful expression appeared on Krystal's face for a moment. She then added, "…but there's still the 'fourth Jonas brother,' right? ...and Disneyland?"

Sam nodded once more. "Yeah," he explained, "but Frankie Jonas is already in our hands, so there won't be any lives lost over him." He had, by now, arrived at the conclusion that he and Krystal were on the same page: better that the Jonas Brothers die without taking others down with them then that their lives be bought through the deaths of their fans and enemies.

"As for Disneyland, though… you're absolutely right; a lot of people are going to die if it gets blown up." Though Sam spoke these words calmly, he felt a sense of urgency beginning to boil up inside him. Those people didn't deserve to die, but the way things were going, they were almost certainly going to.

A fire seemed to light up in Krystal's eyes. "So, they're definitely going to be killed? There's nothing that… well, you know…" she fumbled for a moment, took a breath, and then finished: "…there's nothing _we_ could do to stop them?"

It was as though Sam's face had just been splashed with cold water. Yes… yes, of _course_ it was possible to stop the plan. It wouldn't be easy, naturally, but there just might be a way, if he and Krystal could think on their toes. Slowly, he nodded.

"You know more about the plan than I do," she stated flatly. "How, exactly, are they going to do it?"

Sam collected his thoughts; racked his brain to remember the first phase, knowing with certainty that all else would follow smoothly once he remembered it; and then eagerly began to divulge to Krystal a few of the pop whore hunters' most closely guarded secrets.

Miley Cyrus felt incredibly stupid. She had just walked knowingly into the hands of the people who had killed all three Jonas Brothers, thinking that she could make a difference by yelling at them. Now, it seemed, she had gotten her sister and herself in mortal danger, and accomplished nothing for it.

This was what she got for letting her emotions get the better of her, she thought resignedly. An hour or so previous, she had just finished discussing her contract with a pair of unfamiliar Disney executives. On her way out, she had realized that she had written the wrong date on the contract. As she'd been heading back towards the closed office, something one of the executives had said had made her freeze in her tracks.

"…Son of a bitch. He's the one who had the Jonas Brothers killed, right?"

"He sure is," the other executive had said. "Name, Mario Lopez. He's staying right near here, too, somewhere around Laguna Hills, in the house with the mailbox that's painted like a gameboy advance. Seems like everything's happening right here in LA, you know? Anyway, it's not so much his location that's a secret as his position as leader."

"Gotcha. We can't go and get him ourselves, because we're not the police, so it would raise questions."

"Bingo. We also can't tip off the police, because then we'd risk raising questions over how we got the information in the first place. We're the only ones who know where the beast keeps it head, so we can't be the ones wielding the sword that chops it off."

"That analogy didn't really add anything."

"I know."

"You wanna go play rock band?"

"Sure."

At this point, Miley had rushed to her car, activated its navigation system, and set off for Laguna Hills. In retrospect, it now seemed painfully obvious that Mario Sanchez would be guarded in some way- and here she was, tied up by his bodyguards. If only her sister hadn't been in the car with her; if only she hadn't told Noah what she'd heard…

"You awake?" asked a sharp whisper in her ear, snapping her out of these frustrated thoughts. It was a fair question; she had been tied up for what had seemed like hours, on a bed, in a room by herself; her eyes had been closed, and she was in a resting position.

However, at the sound of this voice, which was far too close for comfort, she opened her eyes immediately. She saw Sanchez's face just a foot away from hers, and she nodded as angrily as it is possible to nod.

"I don't want to hurt your sister," he told her, in that same unsettling whisper. "She is young, and also innocent; she does not yet have the same grip on the American youth that you have, that the Jonas Brothers have."

Had she been able to speak, Miley would have launched into yet another furious tirade against this sick murdering fuck. As it was, however, she could not speak due to the rubbery stuff in her mouth, so she simply glared at him with as much loathing as she could muster.

"I also want to save Frankie Jonas, if I can," he added, seemingly ignoring her obvious hatred for him. "Most people don't even consider him a Jonas brother. This means that he is not guilty of the same crimes as his brothers- and he, like your sister, is very young."

He paused for a moment to let the pop star absorb these words, and then continued: "I say 'if I can' because although I am the leader of this organization, I would be very naïve to expect complete cooperation from every one of its members at all times. They may not like the idea of sparing one of the four children of the Jonas family. They may wish death upon your sister, just as they wish it upon you. If they find it disagreeable that I would spare these children, they will almost certainly override my authority in the name of the cause."

It did not occur to Miley to feel sorry for this boy. If he stood in the way of his agents and they, outraged that he would betray his own cause, decided to kill him, then he deserved it, thanks to what he'd already done.

"I am not telling you this out of any pity for you, or to alleviate my own guilt." Miley wasn't sure what the word "alleviate" meant, but if any criminal in history should feel guilty, she thought bitterly, it was he. "I am telling you this," he explained in a final, deliberate tone, "because I think you should know why they will be spared, while you will not."

Amidst the myriad species of rage now stampeding through Miley's mind, there sprung a seedling of fear, from a seed which had been planted the moment she had been apprehended by Mario's agents. _I'm not going to be spared, _she repeated to herself. She, her sister, and Frankie might have been perfectly safe anyway, had she simply called the police; instead, she had taken this painfully regrettable course of action, which now threatened to lead her to her death. Mario must have seen the fear in her eyes, for he began to smile. "I'll allow you to wait," he said with satisfaction, "until I have made my best efforts to ensure Frankie's and Noah's safety. Then, you will learn the consequences of being a true pop whore."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Sir, we have a situation."

Phineas Wellington hid his annoyance at the corniness and the vagueness of this statement. He was glad, however, to have been interrupted from the dull work of filling out miscellaneous paperwork in his office, and promptly asked his assistant, "What, pray tell, is this situation?"

"Our sources have just informed us that Miley Cyrus was captured by the hunters. If we don't retrieve her soon, she could very well be killed."

The news hit Phineas like a jolt of lightning. The Jonas Brothers had been relatively small losses- unavoidable, since he could not risk revealing one of his company's deepest secrets- but if Miley Cyrus died, then on top of the billions of dollars lost and sixteen-plus years of hard, nerve-wracking work wasted, he, Phineas, would be in one hell of a situation, for reasons that he liked to keep to himself.

"I want her brought back alive as soon as possible," he said darkly, with as much calm as he could muster. "I don't care how you do it. Pretend that you live nearby and tell the police you heard a disturbance. Send in our agents and just pray no one realizes they aren't the FBI or the police. Just do something, _anything,_ immediately, and stop the hunters from killing Miley Cyrus."

"Understood," said his assistant, nodding. He then turned around and left in a hurry. Phineas, after a moment's hesitation, got up and followed up, intending to speak to anyone in the company who might be of use in getting back his most prized possession.

He awoke slowly, with a headache. Blurred images swarmed before his eyes before converging and resolving into the hard concrete floor he was lying on, the concrete wall across from him, and the light that must have been cast by a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He was in a basement, it seemed. He struggled to get up, but realized that something was holding his arms against his back. He was tied up as usual, it seemed, though there was no longer anything preventing him from speaking.

Some number of days ago that he had lost track of, Frankie Jonas had been on a hike in the woods at summer camp when older boys dressed in black outfits and carrying black weapons had jumped out of the bushes; blindfolded, gagged, and tied him; carried him off to a car that he couldn't see; and driven him off somewhere. He had spent these last, uncountable, terror-filled days begging for an explanation of what was going on, being fed bland meals, and struggling to get away from his captors. As time had gone by, he had resigned himself somewhat to this monotonous fate, for when they were not roughly dragging him back to his room after an attempted escape, they left him well enough alone.

Now, however, it seemed as though they had something else in mind. He couldn't remember how or when they had knocked him unconscious, but clearly, they had. Frankie thrashed around for a bit, bumping his head on the hard floor a couple times as he did so, and finally managed to roll himself over. The sight before him elicited from him a yelp of fear.

On the wall opposite him was a large, sinister-looking machine, with four padded rings, held in the air in front of the machine by metal rods. In the center of the square formed by these rings was a large metal object, tall and rounded at the top, that might have been an oddly shaped seat, except that it was too large for a seat. Most frightening at all, however, was the sight of two people- whom he recognized as his guards- testing a pair of blowtorches, shooting flames into the air. Apparently satisfied, they set down the blowtorches off to the side before approaching Frankie.

He struggled more now than he could ever remember having struggled during the entire course of his captivity. Whatever this machine did, he did not want to find out; he tried to bite at the older boys carrying him, but they merely swatted his head away from their hands, as they might an annoying fly.

As they brought him nearer and nearer to the machine, however, the sound of rushed footsteps came from somewhere off to the right, and they stopped. Frankie had to twist his head quite far to look in the direction of the sound, since he could not move his body. As the footsteps grew closer, he saw what seemed to be the only door in the room open, revealing an out-of-breath, somewhat chubby boy of about sixteen with black hair, possibly Mexican.

"Hold- on…." he panted, looking pleadingly at the guards. As he took a moment to catch his breath, the guard on Frankie's right interrupted him.

"Hold on for what?" He asked. "The sooner we finish off the last Jonas brother, the better… right?"

"…but I've decided I want to handle him personally," Mario announced, once he had slowed his breathing enough to speak normally. "Please, gentlemen," he pled, in a casual tone, so as to make it sound as though it was not, in fact, a plea. "I think I can handle this child on my own. I must insist that you return to your primary outpost while I… take care of things."

The guards looked at each other, then at Mario, as if they wanted to ask him something. To his great relief, however, they did not, and walked off, both saying "Yes, sir" in an even tone. Mario waited some time, to be sure they were gone, before turning his Frankie, who cringed.

"You and Noah must leave here immediately," he explained to him. "You will be in great danger as long as you stay here. I will go with both of you to the front door, but I cannot be seen with you, or I will be in danger as well. Once you are out the door, you must go to safety- any house you choose, since anyone you meet will surely want to help kids your age get home. Do you understand?"

Frankie stared at him for a moment- surprised, perhaps, at his mercy. Then, he asked, "What about Miley? Is she coming with us?

The boy had listened too carefully, Mario realized. "Miley… is going to catch up with you," he lied simply. Whether Frankie could see through him or not, he must not have wanted to argue, for he merely nodded, prompting Mario to lead him out of this awful room, which was so suggestive of death.

Mario's lack of fitness and Frankie's short legs meant that their respective hurried paces were roughly equal as they made their way to Noah's room. Mario opened the door to see her sitting on her bed, looking at him with an expression of slight surprise. As she had not yet attempted to escape, there had been no need to restrain her, and there was therefore no need to untie her now. "Come with me," said Mario, beckoning to her. After a moment's hesitation, she acquiesced, and Mario escorted her and Frankie to the front door, opening it hurriedly, before he had time to hesitate.

"Both of you must leave, now," he explained, more to Noah, who had not heard his previous explanation, than to Frankie. "If you see the guys who captured you, scream as loud as you can. It's very important that you find an adult, any adult, and explain to them who you are so that you can go home. Alright?"

They both nodded solemnly. "Then go," he urged, motioning for them to step outside. "Miley will catch up with you. Just go, now, before anyone comes." At these words, both children squeezed through the door, moving away from the secluded house, past the gameboy advance-shaped mailbox, towards the larger community, where the houses were closer together, pausing only momentarily to look back at their savior, who just watched tensely as they turned around once more to make their way to freedom. Satisfied that they would not fall back into hunter hands, he closed the front door, locking it for good measure. He was concerned now with two things: the task of inventing a cover story for what had just happened, and the dark deed that still lay ahead of him…

"Should… should I tell my daughter what happened?"

The other officers looked up at him. They had just finished arresting all the teenage boys they had encountered in the trailer. As soon as they'd realized their leader had shot himself, they had gone peacefully, their reckless spirits seemingly crushed. The officers, all of whom had expected to take Doug Sullivan alive, felt highly unsettled as they sat around this table together, while the boys were in prison, awaiting trial.

At the husky officer's words, their discomfort had intensified a good deal. "Suicide's more disturbing than the electric chair, huh?" suggested one officer noncommittally.

Another shrugged. "He wanted to go, didn't he? He felt enough remorse for his actions that he killed himself willingly. That's justice right there, isn't it?" The others murmured agreement.

The word "remorse," of course, hardly encompassed the psychological agony that Doug Sullivan had left behind. They could never know- _no one_ could ever know- how unclean he felt, how tainted with the immortal soul of that dead pop star, how sick with self-hatred. Doug himself could no longer correct them; he could not hear what they were saying about him; he could not know how everyone failed to understand him, even after his death.

In spite of this tragedy, there was also a silver lining of which he had no awareness- for if he had, it would cease to exist. In his death, this terrible, crippling inner pain, which before had been known only to him, was now known to no one; it was gone from the world. In death, he was free.

In death, his dick was clean.

Mario was very nervous. In all his work as leader of the pop whore hunters, he had never expected it to come to this. He had always held confidence that agents far below him would handle his dirty work, as Doug Sullivan had done. He had hated every single member of the Jonas brothers- along with every other pop whore, for that matter- and yes, he had wanted them all raped and killed… but to do it himself? To hear the screams of terror, agony, and degradation, so near to his own body, his own flesh? To feel with his own flesh the frantic struggling against the ropes that bound his victim, to see another human being suffer so with his own eyes, to commit the foul act all own his own- the thought of the task that lay before him made him more than a little queasy…

…yet, what was he supposed to do? Miley Cyrus, a pop whore whom he loathed as much as any other, had just walked willingly into his own home, unarmed and unescorted, save by her little sister who had been- if anything- even more defenseless than she herself had. If Mario called back the operatives, there would be questions over what had happened to the two children- he shuddered as he thought to himself that he knew all too well where that might lead. It seemed in his best interests to finish off Miley as soon as possible, and then get the hell out of there, off to someplace where he could be alone, safe from old foes and old friends alike… he relaxed considerably at the thought. To be free and safe away from it all was something he had strived for even while the missions had been in progress. Perhaps… perhaps, somehow, he could make himself even safer than he had been before, even more comfortable?

He was rudely awaked from his dreamlike state by a pounding on his front door that made him jump with fright. His fear escalated as he heard the pounding change to an even louder but less frequent bashing noise. Paralyzed, he simply stood there, quivering and staring at the door until one last bash brought it down- and with it, two armed men in black suits and sunglasses, who expertly tumbled into crouching positions, pointing their guns at Mario. Four more followed, running through the doorway and pointing their weapons at him as well. _They have come for Miley, _said the part of his brain that had retained its ability to function. _They know she's here._

Sure enough, the one closest to him demanded, "Where is Miley Cyrus?" His voice was clear and authoritative; each syllable was as a bullet, shot from his mouth into Mario's skull. Unable to stop his horrible shaking, which betrayed the icy, liquid fear inside him, Mario slowly lifted his arm and pointed towards Miley's room, not daring to take his eyes from the guard, nor even to blink. Still looking at Mario through his sunglasses, the agent jerked his head to the side. This was evidently a cue to the others, for two of them immediately rushed off towards the door he had indicated.

Something occurred to Mario- something quite miraculous, given his numbness. None of these men wore badges. They were too old to be hunters- this he had realized the moment he'd seen the first two- but they clearly weren't police officers, either.

"Wh- who… are you?" he asked in a high, quaking voice.

To his astonishment, the man who had spoken before grinned.

"We're with the Disney Corporation."

Krystal and Sam were nearly ready. Sam had gone over the details of the plan with Krystal enough times that she knew roughly as much about it as he did. The short of it was, a hydrogen bomb was hidden under the floorboards in a storage shed somewhere in Disneyland. It was to be detonated remotely once the hunters and anyone they chose to save within the danger zone had been evacuated. It was the latter group, of course, that had been most difficult to evacuate- the process had been ongoing since before the rape, murder, and rape of Nick Jonas had taken place.

Sam and Krystal planned to take advantage of the fact that each held favor with a respective powerful organization. Sam was to delay the detonation with false claims that a friend of his would be killed by the blast. Krystal, meanwhile, was to inform the underground Jonas fan club that she had narrowly escaped her hunter captors, and that, while in captivity, she had overheard them discussing the location of the bomb- not "the hydrogen bomb;" just "the bomb." This was very important. It had to seem as though she had not been trusted with all the details of the plan, as she had; it had to seem as though she remained loyal to her fellow fangirls during her long captivity, and not come down with a case of Stockholm syndrome, as she so abundantly had.

Krystal was surprised to find that as she and Sam walked outside and climbed into an unmarked van, she felt no desire to look behind her and see the front of the house she had spent so much time in. Perhaps it was because all the houses in the area looked the same, and the one where she had been couldn't possibly be that much different; perhaps she was so sickened by the monotony that she didn't want to augment her memories of it. Whatever the case, she stared straight ahead, waiting intently for Sam to start driving.

He turned to her. "You… should probably stay low," he said slowly and somewhat cautiously. "I mean, if anyone we know sees you…"

"-Yeah, I got it," she replied, sliding down below the view of anyone who might look through the front windows from a standing height. Far from taking offense, she felt slightly irritated with herself for not realizing that this would be a necessary precaution. Without any further delay, Sam pulled out into the street and set off for Disneyland.

"Come _on!_ Let's go try the next house!"

Noah was tugging on the sleeve of Frankie's shirt, urging him to abandon his attempts to get someone to answer the door of the house before them, whose doorbell he had just rung for the eighth time. "Not yet," he said distractedly, not daring to take his eyes from the door in case he missed it opening. "I thought I heard voices inside."

Both of them remembered well what the fat gardener guy had told them: they were not safe until they found someone who would help them get home. Frankie wasn't sure why it was taking Miley so long to catch up, but- perhaps due to wishful thinking- he assumed that she would eventually. This house, however, he had given up on, and so acquiesced to Noah, following her across the lawn to the house that sat to the right of the first.

This time, the push of the doorbell was met almost immediately with the sounds of footsteps from within, and a middle-aged man in jeans and an undershirt answered the door.

"Can I help you?"

Since he didn't look particularly surprised to see them, Noah thought it best to make a quick introduction: "I'm Noah Cyrus, younger sister of Miley Cyrus, and this is Frankie Jonas, younger brother of the Jonas Brothers. We got kidnapped, and…" The man raised his eyebrows. "…and now we have to go home," she ended lamely.

He stared at the two children for a moment, apparently sizing them up. Then, he half muttered, "the Jonas Brothers… they're a band, aren't they?"

Miley couldn't believe what she was hearing- and, from the look on his face, neither could Frankie. However, Miley decided it best not to reprimand this poor man, who was so stupid he didn't even know about famous people. Instead, she hastily changed tacks.

"Look, we really need to just call our parents as soon as possible. Can we _please _use your phone, mister?" she pled, putting on her most helpless and adorable face.

She must have done this well, for the man was nodding before she had finished speaking- and, when she had, he said softly, "Yeah, I'll go get it," went to get his phone, returned in less than a minute, and handed it to Miley.

Frankie, who had been silent thus far, now piped in: "Thank you!" he said to the man, who nodded and smiled kindly at him as Noah dialed a number she knew by heart, and then waited anxiously as it rang.

"Hello?" answered the voice of Billy Ray Cyrus.

"Hi, Dad," she replied. "It's me, Noah. I'm with Frankie Jonas and we need someone to come pick us up."

Miley Cyrus was utterly bewildered. This fat Mexican kid- who had somehow masterminded the killings of all three Jonas Brothers- had been about to do the same to her when these armed agents from Disney had come to her rescue, instructed both her and Mario to get in a black van, and driven away with the two of them.

It had, of course, occurred to her that it was fairly unlikely these agents were, in fact, in Disney's employ. However, when she'd seen them force Mario Sanchez into the van by threatening him with their guns, she'd decided against arguing with them in any way or, for that matter, doing anything that might not be to their liking. However, she saw no harm in asking them one question.

"Where exactly are we going?"

The agent riding shotgun twisted around to look at her. She mentally cringed, but did not look away. To her surprise, he grinned at her.

"Disneyland," he replied.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

As Sam parked his car in the Disneyland parking lot, he realized just how much could go wrong with this plan. If he and Krystal were seen together by a hunter or a fangirl, would anyone really believe she was still his captive? Each of them wore a pair of sunglasses; the safe house had lacked the necessary resources for any better disguise. Realizing that he had passed the point of no return, Sam took a deep breath, opened the door, stepped out of the car, and withdrew his cellphone.

His hands shook slightly as he closed the door and began to dial the number of someone he hadn't spoken to since he'd kidnapped Krystal. As this thought reminded him of her, he looked around, walking around the front of the car to see if she'd gotten out yet. She had. He returned his attention to his cellphone, which was now sending the call…

Dennis Williams felt completely wired. His heart pounded as he made the final preparations for the detonation of the hydrogen bomb that lay ten feet below Disneyland: the IMs, the phone calls, the reports in person from the other hunters in the base with him. Preliminary reports indicated that every hunter in the entire organization had gotten everyone he wanted out of Disneyland; all that was left was an hour or two of confirmation work. As Dennis scanned the date and time of a photo of a family on a vacation to Sicily, his phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey. This is Sam Everett. I disappeared for a while during the fight to keep the fangirls away from Nick Jonas."

"Jesus Christ! Yeah, I remember you! I thought you were dead! What the Hell happened?!"

"I played dead, that's what. Got a live captive out of the deal, too. Unfortunately, my parents took my cellphone and computer away around that time, so I couldn't call you to tell you what was up."

Dennis blinked. There was something odd about this story. Nevertheless, he said, "So… fill me in. Was there something specific you called me to tell me?"

"Yeah. There's a friend of mine who'd be killed if we blew up Disneyland. I'm actually at the place now, on my way to look for him."

Dennis groaned. His comrades weren't going to be happy about another delay. Then again, this _was_ a matter of life and death, so it was only fair that he should delay the explosion.

"…Alright, I'll inform-"

Exactly whom Dennis planned to inform, however, Sam never heard, for at that moment, a clearly distraught hunter barged into the room where Dennis was working.

"Mario Sanchez… he's gone!"

Dennis was so surprised by this news that he reflexively stood up. "Gone where? Be more specific!"

The hunter took a moment to collect himself, and then began to explain, speaking very quickly: "Operatives on-site have just reported that after they'd captured Miley and Noah Cyrus- and locked them up in Mario's house- Mario told them to leave for a while. When they came back, the front door had been knocked down and no one was there."

Dennis's jaw dropped. As shock buzzed through him, a voice from the phone held loosely in his right hand began to shout, _"Hello?? Hello??"_

His attention snapped back to Sam. "Yeah, sorry about that. Urgent news. It turns out we're going to have to have a delay anyway, because our leader's gone missing."

Sam was stunned by the news as well. "We have a leader?!"

"Yeah, Mario Sanchez. You might've met him. Fat, Mexican, lives in a house with a gameboy advance mailbox…"

"-Yeah. Yeah, I've met him."

"What is it?" whispered Krystal sharply. It was obviously to her that something very important was going on, and she wanted to know about it as soon as possible so as to adjust her and Sam's plan accordingly.

"…Look, I have to go now. Call me back when you and your friend are safely away from Disneyland. Bye." With that, Dennis hung up.

Sam returned the phone to his pocket and turned to Krystal, who was still waiting anxiously for an explanation. "Apparently our leader's been kidnapped," he said to her. A thoughtful look appeared on her face.

"You know," she said, starting to pace around the car, "it was probably done by fangirls. Maybe I should call one of the higher-ups…"

It occurred to Sam that he and Krystal might make a strange scene if they were overheard. As he looked all around, a sight caught his eye that made him do a double-take.

"No need to make a call," he said, stepping forward, away from the car.

"Why's that?" asked Krystal, puzzled.

"I know where the leader of the hunters is," said Sam, slowly raising his hand in a pointing gesture. "He's right over there."

Krystal immediately looked in the direction he was pointing. There, about forty feet away, she saw a fat Mexican-looking kid, escorted by two men in black suits, and- her heart skipped a beat- Miley Cyrus.

In spite of all her training, she couldn't help freezing up for a few seconds at the sight. How was this possible? What the Hell was going on here?? She looked from Sam to the four people now getting out of the black van. After they had done so, they made their way purposefully towards the theme park- presumably to some sort of back entrance.

It took Krystal a moment to realize that Sam was walking towards them, making as if to follow them from a distance. "Aren't you going to call the hunters to tell them that their leader's here?" she whispered.

Sam shook his head distractedly. "Can't," he answered in a gruff whisper. "There's bound to be a fight if I do, especially since Miley Cyrus is with him. We just have to follow them without being noticed…"

Krystal realized that she and Sam were both completely in their element here. They were, after all, secret agents- and what could possibly be a better scenario for a secret agent to shine than following a guarded celebrity and a probable hostage into the unknown. In spite of- or, perhaps, because of- the promise of danger, Krystal felt her mouth twist, unbidden, into a smile.

Mario felt completely unnerved by the fact the agents taking him into Disneyland had hardly said a word the entire trip. He had been hoping for at least some explanation of what was going on- after all, since when did Disney have armed agents at its disposal? Why were he and Miley Cyrus being taken to the same place? It occurred to him that he might soon be separated from her- to spare her the sight of his grisly death, no doubt. He felt his very bones shudder at the thought. "Um… may I ask where we're going?" he asked meekly as the four of them walked through a back entrance to Disneyland.

"Well, Miley's got a concern to perform-"

"-oh, that's right, I do!" She cringed as the agent looked at her, surprised by the interruption. In the wake of her kidnapping and subsequent rescue, she had forgotten all about the concert she'd been scheduled to give in Disneyland. She was relieved when the agent looked forward once more, and continued to speak to Mario:

"…and you're of secondary importance, so you get to tag along while we get her where she needs to go."

They were now making their way through what seemed to be a long pathway of off-limits areas; iron fences and tinted windows separated them from guests as they made their way through building after building. Finally, after seemed like an hour, an agent opened the door to the backstage area that was Miley's destination.

"Here we are," said an agent to Miley Cyrus. "You'd better start getting ready right away. You're supposed to be onstage in about twenty minutes."

Miley, however, was not quite ready to say goodbye to her rescuers. "Wait," she said to them, turning to face them as she stepped through the door. She ignored the attention of the people in the backstage area, who were visibly confused by the sight of her in strange company. "You still haven't told me who you are. Since when does Disney have secret agents?!"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that," he replied. With that, he closed the door on her and walked away briskly with his fellow agent and Mario Sanchez. For a moment, he thought he saw something move behind a nearby stack of cardboard boxes- however, upon closer inspection, he saw that the boxes were partially obscuring an iron gate, on the other side of which guests swarmed. Satisfied that this was the flash of motion he'd seen, he carried on.

Mario was more afraid than ever, if that was possible. Now that Miley Cyrus was backstage, preparing for her concert, the agents were surely going to punish him for kidnapping her. He thought wildly of running away- but, surely, he could not outrun these fit, well-trained agents of Disney. He made a mental note to himself that if he ever got out of this alive, he really ought to start playing Wii Fit more often.

The journey from where Miley had been dropped off was not a long one- they entered a building whose second-floor windows gave a decent view of the stage where the performance was to take place. Mario was astounded by the size of the audience- there were so many of them, it seemed impossible that those furthest back would have any idea at all of what was happening onstage. Captivated as his attention was by the large gathering of people, it was immediately drawn back to his present situation as he heard someone clear his throat.

Across the room from him, sitting at a desk, he saw a business-looking man with grey hair and a thin grey moustache, whose age he doubted he could guess within a decade. "Hello, Mr. Sanchez," greeted the man with a vague air of nobility and the slightest hint of an implacable accent. "My name is Phineas Wellington. It was I who ordered the agents on either side of you to your house, after I had learned that Miley Cyrus was being held captive there."

"How did you know?" asked Mario suddenly, before he could stop himself. "How did you find out she was there?"

"She has a tracking device on her," explained Phineas dismissively. "Now, you are probably wondering what I intend to do with you…" -Mario dared to nod once- "…Well, allow me to say simply that you need not fear for your- erm, _immediate_ safety."

Seeing Mario's confusion, Phineas chose to continue. "I'm not going to kill you just yet," he rephrased impatiently, as though explaining a very simple math problem to a struggling student. Here he stood up.

"You see," he explained, looking away from Phineas as he began to pace around his desk, "this concert that Miley is about to perform is… special. Along with the tracking device I mentioned earlier, there is, implanted in her skin, a microscopic capsule. Contained in this capsule is a powerful mutagen, which, upon entering her bloodstream, will cause-" he paused for a moment, looking at the agents, who remained still and expressionless- "...will cause a change in her," he ended vaguely. Having finished his slow pacing during the course of this explanation, he was now standing in front of his desk, leaning slightly upon it as he looked at Mario with his arms crossed

Mario, for his part, was totally lost. "What do you mean, 'a change?'" he asked. "Why would you inject Miley Cyrus with a mutagen?"

Again, Phineas's gaze moved to the agents. This time, however, he spoke to them:

"Move on to the operation room, if you will. I think I can handle this boy on my own."

The agents looked at one another, hesitating, but walked over to a door to Phineas's right and left without a backwards glance. Phineas continued to watch the door for a few moments after they had closed it, to make sure they were gone, and then returned his gaze to Mario.

"Miley Cyrus," he explained dramatically, "is instrumental to an invasion that I have been planning for some time. The main purpose of the mutagen is to cause her voice to reach a certain pitch and timbre that I have been unable to reproduce without her. The sound will be picked up by a special microphone, which will then send it to a special transmission device of mine. The device, in turn, will send it to…"

He trailed off, apparently thinking. "You know what?" he said suddenly. "Maybe I'll just show you what this is all about."

With that, Phineas placed his left hand on his right wrist, pinched the skin in a strange sort of way, and pulled. What Mario saw then made him sick to his stomach- and, as he realized what it meant, afraid- not only for his life, but afraid in an inexplicable, almost primal way of the sheer strangeness of the man who stood before him.

Miley Cyrus was ready to go on stage just in the nick of time. Before any of the crew had a chance to remind her, she walked out to face the huge, cheering crowd. It was difficult to enjoy being in the spotlight, given all the troubling and confusing things that had just happened to her. Nevertheless, she put on a smile and gave the audience a quick greeting before beginning to the sing. _After all, _she thought, _the show must go on…_

As Krystal and Sam listened at the door behind which Phineas Wellington was talking to Mario Sanchez, Mario's sudden scream made them jump slightly- but, fortunately, they made no noise that might be heard by Phineas. Exactly what the Disney executive had shown the Mexican boy, they did not find out. "Perhaps now you understand," spoke Phineas. "When Miley is about to hit a certain special note, I will activate the mutagen-releasing device remotely, changing her voice in such a way that it will send a signal to my people, giving them the necessary coordinates to begin their invasion. As I said before, I will not kill you yet: as punishment for attempting to kill Miley Cyrus, I will allow you to see exactly what you have failed to prevent."

Here, Sam and Krystal held their breath, for Phineas's voice became even quieter.

"Now, if you'll excuse me… I have work to do."

Once more, they jumped, for there was a terrible squelching sound along with more screams from Mario- this time, however, they were not screams of fear, but of intense agony. Sam and Krystal felt nauseated as cracking sounds came from the other side of the door; they could not imagine what horrors were taking place behind it. All they could do was wait and listen as the godawful sounds died down to a pitiful whimpering from Mario and footsteps from Phineas. The two teenagers braced themselves, fearing he was about to leave the same way Mario had come; however, it seemed that he was following the agents he had sent away a minute ago, for they heard the sound of a door closing, leaving Mario alone, whimpering softly.

Krystal was unable to stop her hand from shaking as she reached down to the doorknob. As her hand closed around it, she stopped suddenly to look at Sam, who nodded once. She returned her gaze to the door, turned the knob and opened it…

As they stepped into the room, she gasped. Mario Sanchez looked horribly twisted and broken, as though just enough of his bones had been snapped to leave him alive and conscious- albeit in terrible pain. Tears were running down his fat face as he looked up at her and Sam with an expression of surprise and fright, perhaps because he feared more torture. Distressingly large bloodstains covered his clothes; a red trickle was running down his broken left arm.

"What the Hell did he do to you?" asked Sam in the loudest whisper he dared.

Mario began to shake his head, and then winced from the pain it caused him. He tried to hold perfectly still, but tensed from the effort, and shouted out from the pain he caused himself in doing so. Sam felt even worse now- why hadn't they thought to bring a first aid kit on such a dangerous mission? The answer to this question was, of course, that they had not expected to sustain any wounds that were not instantly fatal- not that this absolved Sam of his guilt at seeing the leader of the proud hunters, mangled and bleeding, and being unable to help him. Outside, on the other side of tinted windows that could be seen out through, but not in through, came the stark contrast of the upbeat sounds of Miley Cyrus singing lyrics they couldn't quite make out, for the thick glass muffled them.

"Mr. Sanchez…" began Krystal- he cringed as she approached him, rightly concluding that since she was a girl and made her way to this secret area, she must be a member of the underground Jonas fan club- "…we understand that you're in a lot of pain right now, and we'll send for help in just a minute. However, there's nothing we can do for you right now. If you're lucky, you'll pass out and you won't have to hurt anymore until you're in a safe place, being taken care of by trained medical personnel." In spite of her mostly cold and neutral word choice, tenderness and sympathy shone through her voice.

Sam was heartened to be able to see and hear that she cared for Mario, in spite of the fact that it had been he who had masterminded the deaths of the Jonas brothers. Here was real, visible evidence that the change in Krystal's loyalties had been genuine. The trust that he had already begun to invest in her intensified, and he resolved to show her, without delay, that he, too, had ceased to value the interests of his organization more than the safety of human lives.

"Krystal," he whispered to her, approaching her as his mind raced, putting together his improvised plan even as he explained it to her. "I have an idea." She looked at him. "I'll call in a hunter rescue team and tell them to come through the same entrance we used to get here. Just as we planned before, you call in a fangirl team with the location of the bomb- I've told you before which entrance you should tell them to use; they shouldn't cross paths with any hunters on the way. Do you understand?"

His asking her was merely a formality, for during the course of their planning, she had proven to be extremely sharp. She nodded, and the two of them simultaneously withdrew their cell phone and placed calls to their respective organizations. Miley Cyrus's song seemed outrageously inappropriate given the seriousness of their situation and the thick, nearly liquid tension that hung in the air, but there was nothing either of them could do to shut out the noise. Finally, someone picked up on the other end of Krystal's phone.

"Hello?"

"Hello, this is Krystal Powers," she said very quickly. "I recently escaped captivity and I'll explain the details when there's more time. Right now, there's a hydrogen bomb in Disneyland that's set to go off sometime in the near future. You need to send in a team _immediately_ to disarm it."

To Krystal's great relief, the next question the fangirl asked her was an extremely relevant one, which she was therefore willing to answer: "Where exactly in Disneyland is the bomb hidden?"

"There's a secret underground tunnel whose entrance is on the perimeter of the park. You can find it…"

_Smack._ Krystal and Sam, who had been looking out the window while making their calls, had been caught completely unaware by their assailant, who had just smacked Krystal's cellphone out of her hand. As both of them turned around, Sam reflexively shoved his cellphone in his pocket, wasting precious time that he might have used to defend himself.

_Smack. _He was knocked to the floor by a blow with astounding strength behind it- undoubtedly the hardest slap he had ever received, and he had received some _very _hard slaps in his time. In the split-second it took him to make his way up off the floor, he saw Krystal dodging another blow from Phineas, whose blood-soaked hands were snatching furiously at the girl; the malice that shone from his eyes indicated quite clearly that he intended to kill her.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Hello? _Hello??_"

Dennis was shouting urgently into his phone, which had just received another call from Sam Everett. The search parties for Mario had, so far, turned up no new information, and Dennis was hoping to get clearance to detonate the bomb. If Sam would just pick up the phone and say that he and his friend were safely out…

After a very tense thirty seconds of shouting, Dennis gave up for the time being, not hanging up the phone, but ceasing to shout- for there were muffled, unidentifiable sounds coming from it, indicating someone was still there on the other line. He fairly collapsed in his chair, despairing at his hectic situation. _The sooner this nightmare is over,_ he thought to himself, _the better…_

Sam and Krystal, of course, were still fighting for their lives. Since Phineas was either a very, _very_ skilled martial artist, possessed superhuman strength, or both, it was mostly a matter of dodging his attacks, which they just barely managed to do. It occurred to Sam that the best way to end this confrontation would be to shoot his opponent, so he shuffled backwards from the fray, simultaneously drawing his weapon. Phineas, distracted by Krystal, actually did a double take as Sam aimed for his head. It was easy enough- since the older man was significantly taller than Krystal, there was virtually no chance of Sam accidentally hitting his friend. Before the Disney executive could react, Sam pulled the trigger.

With a flash of red, Phineas was knocked backwards, hitting the window with a loud thud but, surprisingly, not breaking it. As he slumped against the wall, eyes closed, Sam noticed something odd- his successful headshot had done less visible damage than most successful headshots generally do. True, there was the bullet wound, right between the man's eyebrows- but, other than the initial flash, now splattered around him, there was almost no bleeding. A foreboding feeling rose up inside Sam as he stared at the raw hole in Phineas's head; Krystal, who was now breathing heavily and backing away from Phineas, also seemed to realize that something wasn't quite right. Meanwhile, Mario lay motionless in the same place as before; at some point, he had collapsed from either pain or fear. Sam caught his breath, wondering if, perhaps, he had done something.

Phineas then opened his eyes.

Krystal actually screamed- which was very unbecoming of such a highly-trained agent- but, then again, who could blame her? Sam, for his part, felt as though all of his breath had been sucked out of him. "No," he muttered, as a smile formed on the man's face and he began to get up. "No, that's impossible… it's fucking _impossible_!!" he shouted suddenly.

"Oh, but it's very possible," spoke Phineas calmly, wiping off a single drop of blood that had been sliding down his nose. "You see, though you indeed managed to injure me just now, your bullet did not strike a vital area."

"Yes it did!!" snarled Sam madly. Krystal was backing away even further, her face paling as she shook her head in disbelief! "I shot you in your fucking _brain!_"

"No… no, I don't think you did," replied Phineas in that maddeningly calm voice, faking a thoughtful expression.

"_YES I DID!!" _shouted Sam at the top of his lungs. _"I SHOT YOU IN YOUR HEAD!! THAT'S WHERE YOUR BRAIN IS, YOU RETARD!!!"_

Phineas actually smiled. Sam felt sick with fury and fear. This man had just been shot in the head, and he was _smiling._ "Ah," he began dramatically, clearly savoring the effect it had on Sam. "but there is your mistake. The _human_ brain can be found in the head, protected by the skull. I, however, am not human."

Before Sam or Krystal could react to this ludicrous claim, Phineas threw his head back, as though with laughter; reached up to his neck; grabbed holds of two folds of skin on either side; and pulled back. A seam became visible in the center of his neck. It grew wider- slowly, at first, and then very quickly. The seam widened, and, by all appearances, Phineas removed the skin from his head. As he did, a new head appeared- covered in what might be red and bulging skin, but certainly not the musculature of a human face that one might find in an anatomy textbook, for there were no eyes, no nose, no hair, no mouth, and no ears. The hole that Sam made was still visible, and he could see now why it had had so little effect on Phineas- he had shot a muscle, yes, but still a relatively non-vital appendage, like a hand or foot on a human.

"Now do you see?" In spite of his lack of a mouth, Phineas spoke just as clearly and normally as he had done before, the disgusting appendage sticking out of his shirt collar jiggling as he did so. "I was sent here by my people about twenty years ago. There were actually many explorers sent, for the purpose of finding habitable planets to colonize- but only one flew in each ship, for many solar systems are located so far from mine that it would have been impossible to map out a safe trajectory. As far as I know, I was the only survivor- the others were mostly likely sucked in by stars and black holes."

Krystal and Sam listened intently; they were transfixed, frozen, and rooted to the ground. Here before them stood an alien- an actual alien, telling them his story, explaining how he had come to their planet. Each of them privately thought that this was impossible, but at the same time somehow doubted this thought- for his words carried a strange power, as though they could comprise nothing but absolute truth.

"I was given limited resources, since my people had expected its invasion forces to face limited opposition. Through the use of tiny, flying drones, I managed to spy on Mario Sanchez for a while-" here, he gestured towards the unconscious boy lying on the ground next to him- "but did nothing to stop the killings of the Jonas Brothers. After all, what could I have done, without drawing attention to myself? This persona I have build, this disguise I have adopted for myself, is crucial to my success here. However, when he kidnapped Miley Cyrus, I knew I had to do something drastic."

"We heard about that part," interrupted Krystal. Sam snapped his head around to look at her, shocked that she had dared to speak. "You needed her to send out a beacon to your people, once the mutagen was activated," she finished, ignoring Sam.

"Correct," said Phineas, sounding almost pleased- possibly because she had caught on so well. "This mutagen was supposed to be for me, so that I would have ample time to apply it to myself before using an advanced transmission device to send a signal to the nearest of my people's satellites. They receive so many billions of transmissions daily, you see, that they must screen out all but the most important. This is the purpose of the mutagen. It was given only to us invaders, and not to the general public. They have no way to produce the specific sound that signals the military, telling them it is time to launch an invasion."

"Unfortunately," he went on, his voice taking on a slightly bitter tone, "it turned out I was allergic to the mutagen. Try as I might, I could not make myself produce the necessary sound- for I was too congested- and so I was forced to wipe the mutagen from my system using nanobots."

"Deeply frustrated and ashamed by my failure, I resolved to try something else. Since a mutagen, by definition, causes a mutation anyway, it seemed plausible that I could use it on a different species than my own and still achieve the same results. However, this proved to be a far more difficult plan of action than I anticipated- after countless tests on animals and a few painstakingly-planned, covert ones on humans, I was still unable to engineer the necessary sound."

"However, I did uncover an important clue: humans offered far more promise than animals. They came very close to the sound I was looking for. Thus, I resolved to disguise myself as a human, and wear this disguise until I was fully prepared to signal the invasion, as I am now."

"With my superior technology, it was a simple matter for me to spy upon Phineas Rex Wellington. I chose him mainly because I had established my base of operations in a forest near the house where he lived at the time. After a few months of observation and careful planning, I killed him and took his skin, using my nanites. I seamlessly replaced him; I did his work, saw his family once in a while, spoke to his friends and colleagues… in short, I lived his life."

"Then, one day, I encountered a girl who offered me the very thing I'd been searching for since I'd arrived on the planet. I had long ago trained my ear to recognize the key sound, and- for whatever reason- her voice, after a heavy dose of reverb, equalization, and other types of digital modification, came very, very close. When I first listened to a recording of one of Miley Cyrus's songs, I knew my search was nearly over."

"All that was left was to apply the mutagen, it seemed. At one of her concerts, I secretly injected her with a capsule containing some if it, as I have done today. Thankfully, it did not have any visible effects- her voice just changed quite suddenly as she sang in the recording studio, with no explanation that was apparent to the staff there. I hastily activated the nanobots, which reversed the effects of the mutagen, causing her voice to return to normal. As I did so, I ran a quick scan to see what might have gone wrong. I learned that she was not yet old enough for the mutagen to work as I had hoped; instead, I would have to wait a few more years."

"I left the nanobots in her system, where they have remained undetected by anyone ever since. I have written almost all of her songs since then- the tunes, at least- by planting them in her and her father's mind during the vulnerable human state of sleep. These songs served as tests of her voice- they would have been equivalent to warm-up exercises for a bass singer on my home planet."

"Finally, a few weeks ago, I received an alert from the nanobots notifying me that she was nearly ready… and today, she is."

Krystal and Sam continued to stare at him, still totally dumbfounded. Whether this was not an extremely elaborate and outrageous hoax, it seemed, they were about to find out. He looked out the window- or, at least, he rotated his body to face the window. "This is the song," he said softly, with a trace of glee, "and she is approaching the note. I have set the capsule to release the moment she does. What I have set in motion here cannot be undone."

As Miley sang, she felt a funny tingling sensation in her arm. Ignoring it and resisting the urge to scratch, she plowed on with her song:

"… _I hold on,/ hold on to everything in sight… /Hold on to all these things that keep me feelin' right…"_

On the word "right," she held the note out. It was the highest note in the song, a high C. She definitely felt weird now- the tingling feeling escalated, and, to her horror, she found that she found that she could not end the note. There was a sudden change in her voice- subtle, but noticeable. She felt her body seize up; her voice seemed to be completely beyond her control. For a few seconds, the music continued. Then, realizing something was wrong, the crew backstage cut it off. The audience, thinking this was part of the song, began to cheer even louder. Miley became very, very afraid. Something was definitely wrong here. After eight more seconds, this strange voice that was not quite her own released its hold on her as suddenly as it had seized her.

The cheering began to cease amongst the first few rows of the audience, as they were able to see the terrified expression on Miley's face. Puzzled, they went quiet, as did the rows behind them. A ripple of silence went through the entire crowd as they collectively realized that something had gone wrong, though not one of them knew what.

Then, without warning, bright lights began to appear maybe thirty to fifty above the stage- two or three, at first, followed by more, until there were more than twenty. They looked like tiny stars, expanding into harmless supernovas- which forced the onlookers to shield their eyes- before disappearing. Suddenly, there was a scream- something had fallen into the crowd.

Those nearest saw it first, for everyone else was looking at the ground to avoid being blinded. It was a hideous monster, roughly humanoid, but with a large, oblong lump where its head should have been. Its skin was rough, red, and bumpy, and it had three long, writhing tentacles on each arm, where its fingers should have been. The people it had fallen on screamed suddenly as it did so; whether or not they survived, those around it did not know, for they could hardly hear- or, for that matter, think- over the sounds of their own screams.

There were sickening thudding, crunching sounds all around as similar creatures appeared everywhere else. Upon landing, each one would right itself before viciously attacking those closest to it by jumping on them and strangling them with those horrible tentacles. About twenty seconds after they had begun to fall, a security guard overcame the initial shock long enough to fire a few bullets at the closest creature's head-analogue.

All but the last shot missed, thanks to the uncontrollable shaking of the guard's hands. The last shot, however, struck the beast's head at a glancing angle. Enraged, it spun on the guard, and bounded towards him on its unnaturally large, rhinoceros-like feet. Terrified for his life, the guard had time to fire off one more shot- which missed- before the thing was upon him, furiously wrenching his head off.

The invasion of Earth had begun.

In the safety of Phineas's office, Sam and Krystal watched, horrified, at the carnage taking place outside. Miley Cyrus, who of course was just as terrified as everyone else, had retreated backstage. Behind them, Phineas was laughing, apparently no longer seeing any need to attack them, and therefore not caring that they had their backs turned.

"_Now_ do you see?? Your race is doomed! As I am most likely the first explorer of my kind to discover a habitable planet, I will be hailed as a bringer of tremendous prosperity and growth! You know, I think I will let Miley live… after putting so much work into her, I am certainly hesitant to give up my most prized possession. Mario, as well, shall be spared… He ought to know what he could have prevented, had he had the chance!- and you two, who fought for him and against him, respectively, before joining forces to save him… yes, I can afford to keep a great many humans as pets, now that they will no longer be the dominant race on this planet…"

Krystal ignored him. She was watching the horror unfold in the crowd below her. _Why is it so hard for them to just run?_ she wondered. She couldn't help being a little insensitive to the apocalyptic nightmare before her; she had long since trained her mind to become rational and unemotional under stress. _I can run faster than any of those things,_ she decided. It was true; their large, clunky feet prevented them from reaching the sprinting speed of a fit human being; they were able to claim lives mainly because the area was so crowded, and people bumped into each other and tripped constantly in their attempts to run away. _Why don't they have any weapons? Why didn't they use nanobots to move more quickly, like Phineas? Were they really this unprepared?"_ It was then that something else caught Krystal's eye.

Every time a new blinding flash of light appeared in the sky, the top of a tower- which she had not noticed until just now- would light up. Could this tower contain the advanced transmission device Phineas had spoken of? Why not keep it further from the warp point, where it would be safe during the initial confrontation?

With tourists dying by the hundreds below her, there was no time for Krystal to congratulate herself on her quick thinking in the middle of an alien invasion. Instead, she continued to frantically rack her brains for a plan- then, it came to her. The first and last steps were so painfully obvious she was amazed she had thought of neither of them sooner.

She turned to Sam. "We should run," she explained. They did.

As they ran, they heard Phineas chasing close behind them, panting heavily as he did. It was clear that despite his incredible strength and fighting ability, he, like the rest of his kind, was not particularly suited for running. Before long, Sam and Krystal were away from him, and slowed to a steadier pace that would take them where they both knew they needed to go.

"What about Mario?" asked Sam, once he had slowed down enough to speak. In answer, Krystal shook her head. Sam grunted in a way that indicated he understood. After the injuries he had sustained, Mario Sanchez had no hope of leaving Disneyland with them alive. For that matter, there was no hope for anyone in the theme park, save the two of them. Still, they knew it had to be done.

After what felt like an hour of running during the course of which they passed many monsters and tourists alike, but, thankfully, were significantly obstructed by neither, they arrived at the place they'd been searching for: an old wooden building, in an off-limits area, nearly completely walled in by fences and larger, more noticeable buildings. It was warehouse which they knew contained the hydrogen bomb. After they had entered and closed the door, they expertly but frantically searched the floor of the place, stifling sneezes as dust rose up from spots that must have been untouched for decades. They ignored the eerie spectacle of the old Disney character costumes with large heads, nestled on racks in the midst of slowly floating dust particles made visible by the light that shone through the windows, and simply continued to search the floor until Krystal heard Sam whisper "Found it!" She scrambled over to him as he lifted up a loose floorboard that had been hidden under a locked chest, unable to keep the former from creaking. She helped remove the ones around it until there was a hole that was not only large enough for them to fit through, but also a ladder leading down, which she immediately grabbed onto in order to avoid wasting precious time through a courteous but unnecessary game of "you first."

As the two of them climbed down, Sam mentally reprimanded himself for not thinking to bring a flashlight. Nevertheless, enough light shone in through the hole in the floor for them to see the massive bomb contained below it, its smooth metal surface reflecting enough light to make visible some of the many pillars supporting the floor above. This room was far larger and far darker than the warehouse itself- but as Sam set foot on the soft dirt floor, he knew exactly which direction to head. He turned left, in the direction that the "head" of the bomb was pointing, and made his way into the darkness as quickly as he dared. Krystal followed closely behind him, which was not difficult, as the sounds of his footsteps echoed loudly in the otherwise silent room.

Finally, they reached their goal: a small, train-like vehicle perched on magnetic rails leading into a deep tunnel. Now that their eyes had adjusted to the dim light, they were able to discern more of the room's details. However, all they cared about for the time being was this train, which would allow them to outdistance the alien invaders by a long shot, assuming they didn't start warping in vehicles or warping in soldiers somewhere miles away from Disneyland.

Once they were inside the train where it was virtually pitch-black, Sam felt his way to a lever, which, when pulled, caused every compartment to light up. Not wanting to waste any time waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness, he felt his way across the controls- which, thank God, he had memorized by heart during the course of his and Krystal's preparations. As he pushed, pulled, and twisted everything he needed to in order to set the train in motion, he was gladdened by the mechanical whirring sounds around him- for these, more than the lights, told him that the train was in working order. In short order, it was set in motion, and gradually accelerated to a thunderous speed as it rumbled through the tunnel, carrying Krystal and Sam to safety. As they approached the effective "safe zone-" for the tunnel was effectively protected from fallout, though not from the initial blast- Sam withdrew his cellphone, and found, to his surprise, that Dennis had not yet hung up. "Hello?" he shouted into the phone anxiously.

"Yes, hello? Sam?" answered Dennis immediately, to Sam's great relief.

"Yeah, it's me. My friend and I are nearly out," explained Sam rapidly. "We're on the magnetic rail right now-"

"-Yeah, yeah, I know…"

"…Yeah, so you need to set off the bomb as soon as-" Sam stopped, lowered the phone, and looked up at Krystal.

"What are you waiting for?!" she asked, almost hysterically. "Tell him he needs to set it off as soon as we're clear!"

Sam started at her for just a moment, considering her. Something had been nagging at him for a while now, but, naturally, it was a concern that had pushed aside by his and Krystal's desperate flight from an alien invasion. Now, however, seemed like an appropriate time for him to bring it up with her.

"Earlier," he said, ignoring the way she shook her head slowly in protest, a terrified expression on her face, "earlier you called in some fangirls to dismantle the bomb."

"_You think I still fucking care about this stupid pop whore rivalry??" _she fairly screamed. He saw that there were tears forming in her eyes. "_I stopped caring WEEKS ago!! I-"_

"No, that's not what I mean!" Sam interrupted her hastily. "They must be near Disneyland by now, right? Like, _really_ near Disneyland?"

Krystal blushed, embarrassed about screaming at him now that she understood the misunderstanding that had just taken place. "Yeah," she muttered in reply, looking away from him. "They probably are."

"…so if the bomb goes off now, they'll be killed, won't they?"

Krystal nodded absently, still avoiding Sam's gaze. A green light on the dashboard turned on, and a calm, female, automated voice rang through the cabin: "Train is now outside effective blast radius. It is now safe to detonate. Thank you for your patience." After a few more seconds of thinking, Krystal turned to look directly at Sam once more.

"Tell them to set it off," she said clearly, in what sounded like a surprisingly calm tone. "If those aliens get a foothold, it's all over. We need to do this now, before they start warping in their vehicles, or their technology, or God knows what else. That bomb is our only hope, and it needs to be detonated _now._"

Sam nodded, understanding that she understood this time, and raised the phone- which Dennis Williams had, once more, frantically been shouting the word "hello" through over and over- and said simply, "Set it off now."

"Gotcha," replied Dennis.

While waiting for Sam to get back on the line, Dennis had made the final preparations to set off the bomb. The technicians were all on standby- everything was working smoothly and the bomb was ready to go off; all that was left was to press a single button. Several minutes earlier, it had been decided that the search for Mario Sanchez could safely be put off until after Disneyland had been blown up.

"We have final clearance," Dennis announced, dramatically lowering the phone and turning to the lead technician as he did so.

The lead technician, for his part, was ecstatic to be entrusted with the honor of actually pressing the final button. "This'll teach those Disney fuckers to churn out pop whores," he said viciously, grinning as he mashed down the button with his entire hand.

In almost instantaneous response, the live feed of Disneyland from various angles became basically the same image on every monitor: a mushroom cloud, billowing upward into the classic shape that every boy in the room had seen countless videos of- but never, of course, as a result of their own actions. An intoxicating rush of power filled each and every one of them; the air seemed to vanish from the room. The deed was done; Disneyland was destroyed. All their efforts, the sacrifices they had all made… all of it had been worth it, for their dream had come to fruition. All four Jonas brothers had been killed- save Frankie, whose whereabouts were unknown- though, hopefully, Mario Sanchez had killed him and hidden the body. As the fallout spread, they were all glad to be far from it- far from the explosion that had just killed a massive number of people. These were the casualties of war, of course; they had been told in the hunters' original warning video that Disneyland would be blown up- yet the theme park had not been closed; the people had continued to go there; and, inexplicably, there had not been a single investigation of the bomb threat. It was unfortunate, but necessary, that those innocent civilians should die.

"You know what this means?" asked one hunter, interrupting the collecting reverie of the others, who all turned to look at him. "It means we're not hunters anymore. That was the agreement. The moment the bomb goes off, none of us had anything to do with this organization, and never will again."

Another boy nodded. "That was the agreement…"

Muttering broke out for a few seconds before a tall, black-haired kid stood up, announcing, "Yeah, and it's my job to delete our records. I'm gonna go do that." With that, he left the room.

The others listened as his footsteps grew quieter, and then returned their respective gazes to the monitors. As the mushroom cloud dispersed, it lost its familiar shape, becoming messier and bearing slightly more resemblance to a normal cloud. They watched in silence, waiting for the wreckage to become visible through the haze, but it seemed as though it would be a while. They continued to wait, thoroughly satisfied with what they had done.

The work of the pop whore hunters was now finished.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

For a single, terrifying moment as the bomb went off, Krystal and Sam feared that the tunnel they were in would collapse.

They felt the rumbling mere seconds after Sam had instructed Dennis to set off the bomb. However, it turned out that they had, indeed, passed the safe zone, for the rumbling died down very quickly- most likely because they were rapidly moving away from the sections of tunnel where it was taking place.

"That was a Hell of a ride," said Sam softly, staring ahead, through the dashboard and into the darkness of the tunnel.

"It's not over yet," said Krystal. He looked at her, confused.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

She smiled at him. "The ride's not over yet. We have to wait for the train to stop."

She had just made a joke. Sam experienced a sensation that was reminiscent of the aftereffects of being hit over the head with a hard, heavy object. In spite of himself, he couldn't help but laugh. He even realized that her joke was something of a double pun- after all, they _were_ in Disneyland. Ludicrous as the idea was, who was to say this wasn't just another one of the theme park's wacky adventure rides?

It occurred to Sam that he and Krystal had just been on the last and greatest adventure that anyone would ever experience at Disneyland. After the respective rapes and murders of Nick, Kevin, and Joe Jonas, they had gone into the theme park with the intention of stopping a hydrogen bomb from going off, but, by sheer coincidence, encountered the leader of the organization who had killed the three pop stars, in the company of an alien explorer whose invasion plan that they, Krystal and Sam, had learned about and promptly thwarted. It had been, in a very genuine way, more than enough adventure to last a lifetime.

As they sat there, Sam seated at the controls and Krystal basically riding shotgun, a feeling of peace came to them. With the alien invasion prevented, Disneyland demolished, and all three Jonas brothers dead, it seemed that the pop whore hunters and underground Jonas fan club would now be disbanded. Suddenly, a thought occurred to Krystal.

"What happens if the police link you to the explosion?"

"I wouldn't worry about that," replied Sam. "Now that the bomb's gone off, the hunters are going to clear their databases and wipe all information pertaining to them off the internet. In any event, I haven't actually killed anyone…"

"You're not a killer," interrupted Krystal, suddenly and spontaneously. There was an awkward pause in the conversation. Though this had been a simple enough statement, technically no more than a direct agreement with what Sam had just said, and a relatively mild compliment, Krystal failed to keep herself from blushing. Sam merely nodded absently in response; his mind was obviously focused elsewhere, just as hers was.

"How long till the train stops?" she asked him, in a noticeably distracted tone.

"Just a couple minutes," he replied in the same tone, knowing full well why she had asked, "but it'll, y'know… stay shut until we open the doors, and stuff."

His meaning was as obvious to her as hers had been to him. Each had an inkling as to what the other wanted, but felt as though the barrier separating them was not yet broken. They continued to stare at one another from their respective seats, as the train was guided automatically and there was no need to look out the dashboard. "You should probably get ready," Sam said suddenly. "The train's going to stop soon."

"Shut up!" shouted Krystal, before kissing him hard on the lips. He froze, taken completely by surprise. As she kissed him, the train stopped, just as he had predicted, knocking them apart. He was even more surprised when he saw that she still wore an annoyed facial expression.

"Don't try to change the subject like that!" she scolded. "You shouldn't waste time by talking about boring stuff!" For a second, he stared at her, thoroughly confused. Then, he laughed.

"It's not funny!" she shouted, though she was now grinning. She kissed him once more- longer this time, and he kissed her back. He was an idiot not to have seen this coming a long time ago, he realized. It had been a close thing back in the safe house, when he had first told her that he was keeping her there for her own safety. Her animosity for him had seemed to melt instantly, and he had definitely felt some sexual tension at the time. Wanting confirmation from her, he pulled away from her so as to be free to speak.

"How long have you been thinking about it?" he asked her.

"Ever since you kidnapped me," she replied nonchalantly, a sly grin on her face. "Of course, it started with me being afraid you would take me by force. After I realized you weren't going to… well, I got Stockholm syndrome for you." To Sam, this explanation sounded overly simple somehow, but he was in no mood to argue with her. She resumed kissing him.

He realized dimly that her hands were on his chest, squeezing him slightly every few seconds. It seemed a natural response for him to put his hands on her back, which caused her to purr softly. Of course, because of the angle he was sitting at, his hands had been supporting some of his weight, so once he had moved them, he began to lean backwards- first a little, and then a lot. After a few moments of shuffling around and shifting his weight, he was lying on his back, with his feet planted between the two seats, his head resting on an armrest, and Krystal on top of him. Unfortunately, the seat was a bit small for this kind of use, which Krystal soon realized.

"You don't look very comfortable," she observed, standing up suddenly. Sam shrugged to suggest that it wasn't a problem, but sat up to escape the awkward position.

"C'mon," she said to him, grinning, as she walked towards the door that led out of the control cabin and into the passenger cabin. "Let's move to a seat with more room."

The seats in the passenger cabin did, indeed, have more room- enough for two people to be seated comfortably on each bench- or three people, if they didn't mind being slightly cramped. In any event, the seats were sufficiently large to accommodate Sam and Krystal's needs: as Sam sat down on one of the nearest benches, facing to the right, into the aisle, rather than forward, like he was supposed to. Krystal swiftly bore down on him, forcing him into a lying position that was, indeed, more comfortable than the one he'd been in before. As she kissed him, she began to lift his shirt up without warning. As the back of it was more or less pinned to the seat by his back, she nudged him upwards with her hands, indicating that she wanted his cooperation. He obliged, lifting his back up for a moment as she continued to slide his shirt up, until his arms got in the way. At this point, she got up so that he was on her knees, kneeling over him. He sat up enough to take his shirt the rest of the way off himself, hung it over the top of the seat, reached up, and pulled Krystal back towards him. Her hands were now moving across his chest, stomach, and back; he let her know that he intended to respond in kind by reaching up the back of her shirt slightly, running his hands along her lower back. Once again, she got up, this time to remove her own shirt. Though Sam was interested to see what she looked like without it, he didn't get the chance, for as soon as it was off, tossed carelessly to the side, she was upon him again.

He marveled at how aggressive she was- it seemed as though she was just as determined to subdue him now, in the throes of her intense attraction to him, as she had been when she was trying to kill him. He was also amazed by her leanness; now that so much of her bare skin was pressed against his, he could feel an array of small but hard muscles flexing against him repeatedly. Needless to say, he was very aroused.

As Krystal continued to fiercely make out with Sam, it occurred to her that this was an exploit he might tell his friends about. _Well, at least know one I know will find out,_ she thought. _His friends and my friends hate each other because of the Jonas Brothers. _Satisfied with her logic, she proceeded to undo the fly of his pants.

He fumbled with her bra clasp. She realized that he was anxiously trying to keep up with everything that she was doing, so she reached her hands back, brushed his hands away, undid it herself, and threw her bra to the side as carelessly as she had done with her shirt. She then lowered her chest back down again, letting her naked breasts rest on Sam's chest while her lips returned to his.

As she returned her hand to his fly, she was pleased to feel a bulge on the other side. She pulled her lips away from his long enough to whisper in his ear: "Do you want me to rub it?"

"Mm-hmm," he replied, nodding slightly. Relishing the warm anticipation that seemed to emanate from him, she ran her hand slowly down his chest and stomach. She instinctively held her breath for a few seconds as she worked her fingers down to his open fly, slid them into his boxers, and kept lowering them until she felt them brush against something warm and hard that could only be his penis.

She felt a new rush of exhilaration washing over her, on top of the excitement she had already been feeling, which was mild by comparison. She was touching his penis, she realized. She was _touching_ his _penis. _

It occurred to her that she had no idea how to give a boy a hand job. Distracted by this thought, she stopped kissing him for the time being and lay her head down beside his, her hand still down his boxers. She briefly contemplated asking him what to do, but decided against it, worrying that it might ruin the mood for him. At the same time, she worried that anything she tried might have the same result. Finally, she made up her mind to try running two fingers along the shaft, which seemed like a safe enough course of action. It must have been, for as she began to do so, he moaned very softly, pressing her belly against his with his hands. After stopping for a few seconds to slide his boxers down, exposing his penis, she lifted herself up off him to look at it.

She was reminded forcibly of the diagrams of penises she had seen in health class- after all, up until now, these had basically been the only penises she had ever seen. Sam's penis, however, had a slight rightward curve. As her fingers continued to slide across it, the reality of what was happening washed over her as tangibly as the experience itself. This was the final adventure, she realized. Once she and Sam parted ways, it would be dangerous for them to meet again, since a considerable number of hunters and fangirls in the area knew both of them by sight. There was also the matter of giving the fan club a satisfactory explanation for her disappearance… however, Krystal pushed this concern from her mind. She knew that she had passed the point of no return. There was nothing for it but to let things keep going the direction they were headed; furthermore, she wanted to enjoy that direction while it lasted.

She thought suddenly that he might want her to put her mouth on it. She had the notion that a boy's penis was a distinctly unsanitary object, but, reminding herself that she would have other options to fall back on if she didn't enjoy it, she swallowed her trepidation, gave Sam her best seductive smile, and proceeded to go down on him.

She felt his hands slide up her back and run through her hair as she made her way backwards, keeping her head just a few inches above his body and continuing to stroke his penis. As he realized what she was about to do, his hands moved to her face; he gently placed a thumb on either side of her mouth; it was as if he were willing her to open up for him. She obliged, attempting to purse her lips in a way that would keep her teeth from becoming an obstacle. As she slid her lower lip across the underside of the head of his penis, his hands moved down the back of her neck, to her shoulders, to her arms, to her breasts. He was sitting up somewhat at this point, his shoulders leaning against the window, through which Krystal absently noticed a dark cavern, much like the one they had come from. As she slid her tongue across the slit of his penis, his fingers moved to her nipples and made small circles around them, occasionally pressing on them lightly or gently tugging them. Krystal felt a heady tingling sensation spreading through her whole body as she began to slide her lips over Sam's penis, taking it into her mouth.

Though she didn't want to take in the whole thing, for fear of choking on it, she relished its warmth and hardness as she slid her lips further onto it, and then back off of it, sucking on it as she did so. She was unsure of what to do next, but decided that this would be an appropriate time to ask for directions.

"How do you want it?" she asked him softly, in what she hoped was a sexy voice.

"The underside," he replied after a couple seconds. "Lick the underside of it."

"Okay." Bending it back gently, by as many degrees as she dared, she very slowly lowered her mouth to the place where the base of his penis met his testicles, keeping her face just a couple inches away from the former and making sure to breathe on it softly. She let her tongue fall languorously out of her mouth so that its tip landed just above Sam's testicles. She gradually increased the pressure with her tongue as she slid it up very slowly, taking his squeezes and caresses as a sign that she was doing the thing properly. As her tongue reached the slit, sliding across it once more, she sensed restlessness bubbling from him and pouring into her through his hands.

"What do you think?" she asked him.

He grinned. "I think it's your turn." He lifted himself up on his knees, prompting Krystal to do the same. After tucking away his penis for the time being, he squeezed between the seat she was on and the seat in front of it, facing her. Krystal immediately understood what he wanted her to do: she hoisted herself up, bring her right leg around so that it slid down to his left, while her left leg was still to his right. Sam adjusted his position so that his mouth was close to her belly, below her navel, and began to undo her jeans.

Suddenly, as Sam got her pants off and moved to her panties, Krystal felt nervous. She realized that her vagina might not taste good, or that Sam might except to find it shaven, which it wasn't. However, Sam's face registered no expression of surprise as he slid her panties down, looking between her naked legs and smiling. He rested his chin on the edge of the seat; slid her panties down her legs and off her feet; lifted them- along with her jeans- off the ground; and set them on the seat to her right. She felt somewhat vulnerable by this point; she was still concerned with how her vagina would taste to him.

He reached towards her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer to edge of her seat and within easier range of his mouth. As she moved forward, she hesitantly spread her legs and pressed the inner sides of her knees against the seats in front of her. She held herself steady by planting her hands firmly on the seat on either side of her, closed her eyes, and braced herself.

As she felt his tongue brush the lower part of her labia, first on one side, then on the other, she shivered slightly. She felt his tongue slide just half an inch into her vagina before sliding slowly upwards, towards her clitoris. She gripped the seat tightly, fidgeting slightly from the tingling sensation between her legs, as Sam's tongue brushed lightly across the top of her vagina, stimulating her clitoris as it went. She let out a soft moan as he slid his tongue deeper inside her, wiggling it around, making her squirm with waves of pleasure. Meanwhile, his arms remained around her waist, pulling her in and pressing her vagina against his mouth.

He continued to eat her out for a few minutes before she remembered that he had zipped up his pants earlier. She realized that he probably wanted to have regular sex with her, so she asked: "Do you wanna put it in me?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

With that, Sam stood up, taking his pants off as he did so. Krystal rotated herself and lay down on both seats, her legs still spread. This time, he didn't bother to pick up any articles of clothing as got completely naked. Finally, he lowered himself over her, supporting himself by sliding his forearms underneath hers. He seemed to have lost the patience he'd had while performing cunnilingus on her, for he immediately shifted his pelvis in such a way as to lay his penis on top of her vagina. It was then that he noticed a problem.

"Um…"

"Yes?"

"Well… how does it go in?"

Krystal saw that he was blushing. She hadn't seen this coming, either; she had been expecting him to simply thrust into her. She couldn't stifle a short burst of laughter.

"My hands are free," she said to him with a smile. "I can put it in for you."

"Okay. Thanks."

He was obviously still embarrassed- but, Krystal thought to herself, he would probably feel much better in a few seconds. Her anticipation mounted as she reached down to his penis with both hands and started to slide the tip of it into her vagina. She gasped, for no sooner had she gotten an inch or two securely inside than Sam thrusted the rest of the way in without warning. She had the shocking sensation of having her vagina stretched out very suddenly and appreciated for the first time just how hard Sam's penis was.

"Slow down," she gasped, reflexively pushing on his hips in an effort to get him to hold back.

"Oh, sorry," he said, immediately pulling out most of the way. There was an awkward pause that lasted a few seconds. Then, Krystal realized that Sam was awaiting her instructions.

"Just… slide it in slowly, okay?" Krystal didn't want to make Sam feel embarrassed again, but this sudden stretching had just been too much at once.

"Okay," replied Sam, somewhat sheepishly. As he slid into her a second time, she decided it felt much better, for she could focus completely on the pleasure of it, and not on her concern that something might get torn. Almost instinctively, she wrapped her legs around him as he began to settle into a steady rhythm. After a few thrusts, he lowered his head and began kissing her as he had done before. A thought occurred to her, and she giggled. Sam lifted his head, but did not pull out.

"What?" he asked.

"My mouth has been on your penis," she explained, grinning at him, "so putting your mouth on my mouth makes you gay."

"Nuh uh," he retorted. He then resumed kissing her and making slow, steady thrusts into her.

After a few minutes- though Krystal had no idea how many, engaged as she was with having Sam's penis inside her vagina- Sam suddenly stopped, lifting his head up as he did so.

"What is it?" asked Krystal, puzzled.

"Well… I'm almost done," explained Sam. "I'm going to cum."

"Go ahead," she urged, smiling up at him encouragingly. "You've been making me feel really, really good. Go ahead and let it all out."

He frowned at her. "Don't you want to have an orgasm?"

"Not if you have to hold back," she said, shaking her head dismissively. "Just do it. Cum inside me right now."

He looked into her eyes for a few seconds before nodding with a smile. As she felt his penis start to move again, she added, as an afterthought, "You're allowed to go fast now."

He wasted no time before acting on these words- within seconds, he was pounding in and out of her. Now that she was more or less adjusted to having a penis inside her, the roughness of the act made it exhilarating; the angle of penetration stimulated her clitoris; she began to let out gasps of pleasure. Without warning, Sam became unbalanced and almost fell on her; fortunately, however, he still managed to hold up a good amount of his own weight with his arms. As his thrusts began to slow, they became increasingly wet and squishy- he was cumming, she realized immediately. Finally, he shoved his penis as far up her vagina as he could and held it there, pressing his whole body against hers- but not quite collapsing on top her- as he did so. With a moan of satisfaction, he practically fell off her sideways, weakly wrapping his arms around her waist as he slid into the space in front of the seats.

He seemed to be struggling to get back on the left seat. "Do you need some help?" asked Krystal, bemused. She sat up cross-legged on the right seat in order to make room for him.

"No, I got it," he replied, sounding exhausted from his labors. However, just as he succeeded in climbing onto the seat, he collapsed, his head landing in Krystal's lap. She laughed at him.

"I'm pretty tired," he said simply.

"I noticed."

She began to run her fingers through his hair, wondering if he would actually fall asleep in that position. Now that some release had finally come from all the sexual tension between them, they could freely discuss every aspect of all the overwhelming things that happened in the past few weeks, of everything they had been through… at least, if Sam could stay awake, they could.


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue

_Hours later, Sam and Krystal agreed that it would be best to part ways for the time being, lest a hardened hunter or fangirl see them together and take revenge on them for their betrayal of the cause. They did, however, exchange IM addresses, so that they might someday meet again in a safer time and place._

_As Nick, Kevin, and Joe Jonas were all murdered around the same time, a single memorial service was held for all three of them. Numerous pop whore hunters and members of the underground Jonas fan club alike attended the service. Neither group said anything to the other at any point._

_The bombing of Disneyland was traced, via a trail of false evidence, to a group known as "the anti-Disney movement." This miscarriage of justice demonstrated that adults do not understand how to use the internet, and are therefore easily manipulated through it. A Disneyland memorial site was erected after a cleanup of the area lasting several years._

_No one besides Krystal and Sam ever learned why Miley Cyrus and Mario Sanchez had both been in Disneyland when it was bombed. They and Phineas Wellington were mourned alongside all the others who were killed by the explosion._

_The attempted alien invasion, however, did not go unnoticed by humanity. Shortly after realizing that the transmission device had been destroyed, Phineas's people continued to warp in troops to the last coordinates it had sent them. However, because of the Earth's fast orbit- which they had no data about, since they hadn't even been aware of the planet until Phineas had contacted them via Miley Cyrus- almost all of the new troops warped in ended up in the vacuum of space, while less than twenty drowned in the planet's vast oceans. Three of their bodies washed up on the shores of the United States, Japan, and Africa, respectively. Scientists determined them to be genuine extraterrestrials, resulting in shock and awe across the globe._

_The military on Phineas's home planet, however, soon realized their mistake, and decided against warping anymore troops to Earth, opting instead to send more cryogenically frozen explorers to its last known coordinates. None of these explorers would ever actually arrive on Earth, though one of them _did _help to initiate a successful invasion of a planet whose dominant life-forms were blue lobster men._

_Frankie Jonas and Noah Cyrus never fully recovered from the deaths of their respective siblings, even after years of therapy. They never learned that the boy who had saved them from the same fate had been killed by the hydrogen bomb along with Miley Cyrus._

_The two underground organizations, finally finished fighting fiercely over the lives of the most well-known pop music stars in America, carried out their respective disbandments efficiently and stealthily, just like everything else they had carried out while active. Many of the teenagers who had engaged in direct combat developed cases of PTSD, most of which were incorrectly diagnosed as schizophrenia. With a few isolated exceptions, the two sides of this "pop war-" as it was termed by those few who would later speak or write of it- never fought or contacted one another again._

_With the conflict resolved and the nation devastated by the greatest series of tragedies it had ever faced, the popular music scene was never the same again. Many stars, including Lady Gaga and Taylor Swift, simply stopped producing albums and went into early retirement, out of fear that remaining in the spotlight might incite the same wrath that had come down upon their peers in biblical proportions. In fact, the entire music industry stagnated somewhat, as artists everywhere were hesitant to top the charts. This led to a fierce competition- among those who didn't simply quit, at least- to get _off_ the charts. This was generally done by churning out music that was intentionally awful._

_The Disney Corporation, meanwhile, hastily removed its label from hundreds of young talents and began the long, arduous task of recovering from the complete destruction of one of its theme parks. During this time, it made a point of earning most of its revenue from cartoons, which, the executives decided, would be a much safer source of income than pop stars._

_Meanwhile, the fact that the Earth had narrowly escaped conquest by an alien race was lost to the sands of time; Phineas had made sure to send out signals jamming the transmission of any live video feed in the theme park, ensuring that there would be no footage available of the initial attack, while Sam and Krystal knew that if they told anyone the ludicrous truth, people would just assume that they were riding on the attention the three alien corpses were getting by the media._

_Thus, the human race never learned - among many other secrets- the fact that Miley Cyrus and her music had been nearly been instrumental to its conquest- that nearly all of her songs had actually been tests of a complicated alien communications system._

_Naturally, there is a very important lesson to be learned here: if you are ever listening to pop music, and realize that it doesn't _sound_ like music, then perhaps it isn't._


End file.
